


A Dangerous Game

by ikeracity, Pangea



Series: The Associates [6]
Category: X-Men: Days of Future Past (2014) - Fandom, X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mob, Charles is a Professor, Erik Has Feelings, Erik is not a Happy Bunny, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Honestly Charles What Are You Thinking, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Protective Erik, protective Charles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-16
Updated: 2016-03-29
Packaged: 2018-05-01 23:08:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 102,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5224469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ikeracity/pseuds/ikeracity, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pangea/pseuds/Pangea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When a familiar enemy of Erik's returns to the city for some old-fashioned revenge, Charles is sucked deeper into the world of the mob than ever before.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [A Dangerous Game 危情游戏](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5277158) by [Glacier](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Glacier/pseuds/Glacier)



 

Erik pulls open the car door with his powers, pressing one hand absently to the small of Charles’ back to guide him forward, steering him up into the SUV. He casts a quick glance at the buildings around them as he waits for Charles to climb in, idly playing with his cufflinks for a few moments. All is quiet, no sign of anyone in the empty street or watching from the windows above—they’re well within his established territory tonight, so people know to make themselves scarce when they see one of Erik’s cars.

“That went well,” Charles remarks as Erik climbs in, slamming the door shut and giving Azazel the go-ahead to start driving. His telepath has already unclipped his gun holster from his belt, sliding the magazine out and putting both it and the empty gun on the seat beside him.

“Well enough,” Erik says shortly, mind still churning about the information they’d extracted from the man from Barboza’s syndicate that his own men had captured. Barboza’s been an annoyance lately, growing bolder about expanding his territory, which means encroaching on Erik’s. In turn, Erik’s had his people working for a couple weeks now trying to infiltrate Barboza’s ranks, and figure out what his exact plans are. They’d done him one better, as expected from his people, and gotten him one of Barboza’s upper-echelon members for live questioning.

“You promised dinner,” Charles reminds him. He’s forgone the other window seat in favor of sitting in the middle, right beside Erik so that his leg presses up against Erik’s, warm and solid. “I want to try that new Thai takeout place that’s just across from the university.”

“Azazel,” Erik says absently.

“Thai takeout place,” Azazel repeats in acknowledgement. The streetlights zip by overhead as the SUV cruises through the city, leaving behind the warehouse Erik had chosen for the interrogation.

Erik puts a hand on Charles’ thigh, running it slowly up and down as he thinks. Chavez, Barboza’s man Chen and Hawthorne had captured, hadn’t required much convincing to talk once Erik had shown up with Charles in tow. Just the threat of intrusion via telepathy had been enough to get Chavez to spill, talking so fast even Charles had raised his eyebrows. Chavez isn’t anyone of significant importance to Barboza, but he’s high enough in the ranks to know some of the ongoing deals that Barboza is currently running, mostly dealing with drugs and weapons; Barboza’s main choices of revenue.

The information will be enough for Erik to begin planning countermeasures to knock Barboza down a few pegs and keep him from amassing too much power. The last thing Erik wants or needs is Barboza becoming bold enough to start testing Erik’s borders.

When his thoughts slow down enough to allow Erik to come back to himself, he finds that he’s still gently massaging Charles’ leg while Charles studies him, leaned back against the black leather seat comfortably but sitting with an almost unnaturally straight posture because of the stiff bulletproof vest he wears beneath his suit jacket.

“What?” Erik asks him, even as he feels out the vest with his powers. It isn’t comprised of Kevlar like a regular civilian vest, instead it’s made of a softer material, with thin metal plates in between the layers of the fabric, creating a hard shield around Charles; a shell which still allows Charles some measure of maneuverability and flexibility. Erik likes the feel of it, of Charles encased in protective metal that Erik can feel or grip with his power at any time. He traces each of the plates that move slightly with every in and out breath Charles takes, and checks that the zipper and snap buttons are all safely locked in place.

“I can feel that,” Charles informs him, shifting where he sits. Erik feels the vest flex over Charles’ chest. “And nothing. I was only watching you think.”

“Listening in?” Erik asks, sliding his hand further up Charles’ thigh.

“No,” Charles sighs, thighs twitching apart slightly by instinct as Erik’s hand continues its track upwards. “You know I care very little for whatever nefarious plots you’re currently hatching.”

“Nefarious plots,” Erik repeats, amused, “what am I, a comic book villain?”

“Sometimes I wonder,” Charles replies, but laughs when he sees Erik’s dubious expression. “Don’t think I haven’t seen that awful fur coat in the very back of our closet. Magenta, really?”

“That coat is extremely expensive,” Erik says, but he’s too caught up on Charles’ use of _our_ to argue further. Their closet, in their house they share because they live together.

“Just because something is expensive doesn’t mean it accounts for taste,” Charles says wryly, but his smile is softer as he takes Erik’s hand, lacing their fingers together in his lap. _Finally sinking in?_

_I liked where my hand was going,_ Erik says in lieu of answering, pointedly looking down at Charles’ crotch.

_And I’m not about to give Azazel a free show._

_He’d probably enjoy it._

_Exactly why he isn’t going to get it._

Erik snorts, but keeps their fingers locked together. Sometimes it _is_ still surreal to wake up every morning curled around Charles, not because Charles has spent the night but because it’s his bed now too; to see Charles’ clutter slowly but surely taking over his sparse and neat living room, kitchen, bathroom, slotting into Erik’s life nearly seamlessly. They’ve had their arguments, over what they should watch on Netflix, or whose turn it is to fold laundry, or when the last time someone took the dog out was, and it’s all so inherently domestic Erik feels that he should want to run for the hills except he—doesn’t.

He likes having Charles within reach, where he can see and touch him at all times, where sex can just happen, spontaneously on the couch or in the shower or up against the counter in the kitchen, without having to make prior arrangements only after checking to make sure both of their schedules are clear. If that means playing house, then he’ll play house. He’s content.

He’s gone soft.

“Soft?” Charles asks him with a raised eyebrow, having caught that last thought.

“I should’ve killed Barboza’s grunt,” Erik says idly rather than confessing what he’s really been thinking about the past couple minutes. “They’re going to think I’ve gone soft, letting him live after interrogation.”

“Please,” Charles says, rolling his eyes, “I wiped his mind. He won’t remember tonight at all, aside from believing that he went to a bar and got stupidly drunk. It’s better for you anyway not to be leaving bodies everywhere, because now Barboza still doesn’t even know you’re onto him.”

Erik grins. “We’ll make a criminal mastermind out of you yet, Charles.”

“But officer, I’m innocent,” Charles says, turning his head to give Erik his best wide-eyed and earnest look.

Erik snorts, and from the front seat even Azazel lets out a low laugh.

“What?” Charles asks, glancing between them with narrowed eyes. “You don’t sound very convinced.”

“I will be,” Azazel answers as he makes a right turn, “when pigs fly.”

“Your subordinate is being insubordinate,” Charles leans over to whisper in Erik’s ear.

Erik arches an eyebrow. “Should I have him killed?”

“It may be best.”

“I can hear you,” Azazel says loudly, shooting them a suspicious look through the rearview mirror.

“Good,” Erik retorts. “It’ll remind you to keep in line.”

Azazel rolls his eyes and Charles laughs. “You know, one day he’s going to crash this car just to be rid of us.”

Erik waves his fingers, making the rearview mirror twitch. “He’d be stupid to try.”

Charles grins and leans over to steal a kiss. They normally don’t engage in PDA—Erik has a reputation to uphold after all, and even hinting at how much Charles means to him personally would paint a target on Charles’ back which Erik avoids at all costs—but in the SUV with its darkly-tinted windows and only Azazel to serve as witness, Erik allows Charles to curl a warm hand around his neck and pull him down to press their mouths together, slow and sweet.

_I should tell Azazel to just transport us directly to the bedroom right now,_ Erik says, laying his free hand on Charles’ knee. _Forget cars._

_Tempting,_ Charles replies, grinning against his mouth, _but I still want Thai. Rosie probably needs a walk, too._

_Azazel can walk her,_ Erik thinks back absently, more focused on swiping his tongue alongside Charles’.

Charles laughs quietly, allowing the kiss to last for a few more seconds before he pulls away, straightening in seat; he keeps their hands linked, his thumb stroking along the back of Erik’s palm. Huffing, Erik sits back and thinks ahead to tonight, wondering if he can entice Charles into the shower with him after they eat dinner and take Rosie out. Charles did say earlier he has an early class tomorrow so he wants to get in bed at a decent time, but a shower shouldn’t take too long. They’re perfectly capable of quickies when they put their mind to it.

_Only if you behave_ , Charles sends in amusement, stopping Erik’s other hand from creeping up between his legs any further again.

_What’s the point in having a telepath if he doesn’t put out,_ Erik mock-grumbles, and smirks at the eyeroll it earns him. His hand has made it far up enough for his fingers to brush against the seam of Charles’ jeans, warm with Charles’ body heat.

_Honestly, you’re like a horny teenager_ , Charles says, but it’s accompanied by a flash of a mental image of Charles down on his knees in front of Erik, red lips wrapped around Erik’s cock.

Charles laughs out loud when Erik grits out an expletive from between his teeth, causing Azazel to shoot them both another wary look through the rearview mirror. Erik wants to be annoyed, rankled by the fact that he’s being blatantly teased, but Charles’ delight is nearly tangible, radiating off of him warm and bubbly, and Erik can’t be mad even if it is at his own expense. He likes seeing Charles happy; is greatly satisfied by being the cause of Charles’ happiness.

_Thai would make me happy_ , Charles says, but leans up willingly into the next kiss, parting his lips and shivering when Erik grabs hold of his vest with his powers and presses him back against the seat, held perfectly in place while Erik licks his way into his mouth.

_Is food all you think about_ , Erik asks distractedly, drawing a slow circle with one finger against what he can reach of Charles’ crotch, dragging a fingernail along the seam of his jeans.

_Is sex all you think about_ , Charles counters, but he sounds just as absent as he sucks lightly on Erik’s tongue.

“Step on it, Azazel,” Erik says when they break the kiss off, resting his forehead against Charles’, “I need to feed my pet telepath.”

Azazel mutters something that sounds distinctly derogatory but Charles laughs quietly, shaking his head in fond exasperation and pushing Erik’s hands away even while another smile curls its way across his lips.

The deafening screech of tires is all the warning they get before a pickup truck slams into the side of the SUV with a loud crunch of glass and metal.

Erik’s world spins as the car upends, sent careening across two lanes and the median, rolling over and over again. He has just enough presence of mind to slam Charles back against the seat with his powers when he’s thrown sideways against Charles from the impact, keeping Charles from being tossed around like a ragdoll in a washing machine and magnetizing his own body over Charles’ to keep his own neck from being snapped.

It seems to take an eternity for the car comes to a halt, upside-down with its tires in the air. Azazel is snarling curses in Russian in the front seat and beneath Erik, Charles groans, dazed. It takes Erik a moment to react, his own head still spinning, disorientated, and for a few extra seconds he’s not sure what’s up and what’s down. His head clearing, he carefully lowers himself down onto the roof of the car now serving as the floor, reaching up to help turn Charles around before gently floating him down too.

“Are you alright?” he asks urgently, scanning Charles intently for signs of injury. His heart is pounding, adrenaline coursing through him as he pats down Charles’ front even though he can feel nothing but the vest.

“I’m fine, thanks to you,” Charles answers faintly, blue eyes foggy but rapidly clearing as he blinks several times. “What happened?”

“Azazel?” Erik asks, twisting around to look for his right hand man.

Azazel is still in the front seat, suspended upside down by his seatbelt and gripping the wheel tightly with both hands to keep himself from falling. “Those—” he lets out another long string of Russian curses Erik doesn’t bother trying to follow right now, “—came out of a side alley and rammed us at the—”

This time Erik feels the oncoming metal a split second before it hits. He’s only able to buffer the collision a little as the truck smashes into the SUV again, his concentration split between shoving the truck backwards and grabbing onto Charles’ vest and yanking Charles forward to himself before Charles’ head cracks against the broken glass of the window behind him. He hears Charles shout at the impact, the upturned SUV spinning skidding several yards across the asphalt before coming to another juddering halt, broken glass scattered everywhere.

“Get us out of here, Az,” Erik snarls, wrapping an arm around Charles and extending the other back behind himself, latching onto the truck as it reverses away from the SUV, tires squealing. He feels out all the metal on the vehicle and then picks it up and throws it as hard as he can, tossing it back across the street to crash into the nearest building front with an earsplitting shatter.

Azazel disappears from the front seat with a loud _crack,_ reappearing a second later in the back with Erik and Charles. Erik feels a hand land on his shoulder and he closes his eyes reflexively as the teleporter whisks them away, only to hit the pavement hard outside the wreckage of their car a few feet away.

“Not exactly what I had in mind,” Erik snaps, pushing himself halfway up.

“His leg is broken,” Charles says, sitting up as well. There’s a long scrape on his cheek, but he appears otherwise unharmed.

“Shit,” Erik hisses, dragging himself over to Azazel’s side to assess the damage. Sure enough, there’s an odd bulge sticking out of the front of Azazel’s pant leg, incongruous with the rest of his long, spindly leg. “You’re useless.”

“Fuck off, Lehnsherr,” Azazel says, grinning sharply, but in his obvious pain it comes across more as a grimace, his usually deep red face a few shades paler. “I put out the call. Reinforcements will be here in three minutes.”

“They should be here now,” Erik retorts, but he claps a hand on his friend’s shoulder. He pushes himself up the rest of the way to his feet. Glass crunches beneath his shoes as he moves back over to Charles’ side and pulls him up as well, patting him down again restlessly.

“I’m okay, Erik,” Charles assures him, reaching to brush Erik off too. “I’m fine, I promise.”

“Stay right here,” Erik orders tersely. He goes to the car and feels around with his powers, finding the pieces of Charles’ gun and calling them to his hand, sliding the magazine back in with a metallic click. The entire side of his left palm stings, but he ignores it as he takes stock of their surroundings.

The street around them is eerily empty, no signs of pedestrians or even other cars: they’re in the middle of the street and no other traffic has even driven by. While they’re certainly not in Times Square, there should still be people around. It’s too convenient, which means this is not just a simple one-person attack. This was planned.

“Take this,” Erik says, walking back over to Charles. Despite Erik’s orders to stay put, Charles has moved over to crouch beside Azazel, and he looks up sharply at Erik’s approach.

“Erik, no,” Charles says when Erik offers him his gun back, “I really don’t need—”

“For me,” Erik says tightly. Though he’s calm and in control on the surface, he’s brimming with anger, enraged that someone would dare attack him so brazenly in his own territory. Charles being caught up in this too is only fuel to his fire, and so far his enemies, whoever they are, are lucky Charles hadn’t been seriously hurt or Erik would already be bringing down every building in the vicinity. “I need to know you can protect yourself.”

“That’s what my telepathy is for, remember,” Charles reminds him, but he reaches out and takes the gun, making sure the safety is on before lowering his arm down to his side.

“Can you sense anyone?”

Charles frowns as he concentrates. Erik wants to reach out and wipe away the blood on his cheek but he holds himself in check, hands clenched into fists at his side. He can’t show Charles any kind of tender favoritism, not when they don’t know who’s watching. Right now they don’t even know who attacked them, or why.

“There are a few people around, of course,” Charles says after a pause, “but all of them are laying low or hightailing it out of here. None of them want to be mixed up in this, they’re innocent.”

“What about over there,” Erik says, nodding at the pickup truck down the street. The front end of the truck is completely totaled, smashed in where Erik had thrown it into the building, its back end hanging out over the sidewalk.

“Nothing,” Charles answers, deliberately even.

Their attacker is dead, but Erik doesn’t relax. No one goes through the trouble of shutting down an entire block just to crash two cars. He stretches his powers as far as he can, searching for guns or ammunition belts or something to give him some kind of indication more people are coming.

“Where’s backup,” Erik snaps at Azazel. He needs to get Charles off the street, and Azazel to Logan. He needs to do _something_ aside from standing here in the middle of the road like a sitting duck.

“They should’ve been here by now,” Azazel answers grimly. His brow is damp with sweat, expression screwed up in pain.

“Listen,” Charles says suddenly.

The sharp _pop-pop-pop_ of gunfire has broken out in the distance, echoing slightly as the sound travels through the tall buildings. Erik reaches with his powers again but it’s too far away for him to be able to make out whether it’s friend or foe doing the shooting, or do anything about it either way.

“What’s going on,” Charles says when neither Erik nor Azazel say anything. A moment later Erik feels him in his mind, not prying but gently pushing. _Erik, you need to tell me._

“That’s the thing,” Erik answers him out loud, tilting his head towards Charles ever so slightly to take him in, “we don’t know.”

A new sensation of panic is starting to well up inside him, and Erik tamps down on it before it can grow out of control. He wants to fight, nerves on edge and adrenaline pumping, but he has no outlet to unleash on the pent-up violence beneath his skin. Every instinct he possesses is screaming at him to get Charles away, somewhere far from here where nothing or no one can reach him, where he’ll be safe. But with Azazel unable to teleport more than five feet at a time, and Erik’s other people presumably locked down in a gunfight several blocks away, there’s nowhere for any of them to go.

“Call Angel,” Erik says to Azazel, who immediately starts digging into his pocket for his phone, “make sure the base isn’t under attack and let her know we need reinforcements for our reinforcements.” As Azazel hits his speed dial and lifts his phone to his ear, Erik refocuses on Charles. “If we’re attacked here, I want you to keep your head down and run as soon as you can. Get away from here and try to—”

“I am not leaving you and Azazel here,” Charles snaps, narrowing his eyes, and Erik knows that stubborn look. It’s the look Charles gives right before he digs his heels in and refuses to budge, whether they’re talking about what kind of food to order for dinner or whether or not he should have a discreet protective detail assigned to him whenever he’s out of Erik’s sight. It’s the reason Charles always picks dinner and why Erik isn’t allowed to put a tail on him, but not this time. Right now Erik has no time for arguing. “If you think I’m just going to—”

“I don’t think, I _know_ you’re going to get the hell out of here as soon as I say,” Erik growls, glaring back at him, “because we’re on _my_ time, right now, Charles, so what I say goes.”

Charles glowers mutinously, but before he can fire back Azazel clears his throat weakly.

“Base is fine,” he reports, “more reinforcements on their way.”

“Good,” Erik says shortly, a small corner of him relieved the rest of his people aren’t also under attack. He pulls out his own phone, unlocking the screen and scrolling through his contacts. Might as well give Logan the head’s up he’s about to have a bunch of new patients incoming.

“You’re bleeding,” Charles says, and Erik glances at his hand. Sure enough, there are several sharp shards of glass buried along the side of his left palm—ah. That’s why it stings.

“So are you,” Erik says, glancing at the cut on Charles’ cheek before he finds Logan’s number and hits the call button, “we’ll deal with it when we—”

The sound of chopper blades make him pause, a loud but unmistakable drone coming from the east and drawing closer and closer by the second. Erik ends the call before it can really even go out, peering up into the dark sky for the approaching helicopter.

“The police?” Charles guesses.

“Not likely,” Azazel grunts.

“Who else would be flying a helicopter through the city?” Charles asks incredulously.

Erik finds the chopper with his powers, only two blocks away and coming steadily towards them. It would be easy to bring it down; all it would take is a sharp yank with his power to tear the bird out of the sky. But Erik doesn’t know who or what he’s dealing with, still hesitating as the helicopter finally comes into view at the end of the street.

Then he feels the guns, but it’s already too late. Chunks of asphalt erupt around them as the helicopter open fires, tearing up the street with a spray of bullets. Grabbing Charles by the vest with his powers, Erik picks him up and _throws_ him, using all of his might to toss Charles towards the nearest side street, desperate to get him covered and out of the direct line of fire. At the same time, Erik grabs Azazel by the shoulders and drags him back over towards the wrecked SUV, ignoring Azazel’s yell of pain and ducking down to use the car as a shield.

_Erik!_ Charles shouts, crashing into Erik’s head, panicked but not in pain, and Erik allows himself a breath of relief even as bullets continue to rain down around them. Wherever Charles landed, he hasn’t been hit.

_Still alive_ , he sends back, along with a loud, _DO NOT MOVE._

_You have to get out of there_ , Charles answers, not quite pleading but the terror coating his mental voice is nearly tangible, serving to amplify the sick and oily feeling in Erik’s gut.

Erik is afraid too. Not of the bullets, not even of the possibility of himself getting killed—it’s Charles he’s afraid for, because if Charles is hit by a ricocheting bullet, if Charles is killed in the crossfire of whatever this attack is, Erik realizes with cold certainty he doesn’t know what he’ll do. His throat clogs with just the thought of Charles being taken from him, to a place Erik can’t follow to bring him back.

Dimly, he hears Azazel moving behind him, crawling back into the car. He’s about to demand what the hell Azazel thinks he’s doing when he feels the assault rifle lodged underneath the passenger seat, the one Azazel always tucks under there for emergencies. Erik pulls on it with his powers, but it’s stuck somewhere so he lets Azazel slither in and untangle it as Erik redirects the bullets, shunting them away from the car. One lucky hit against the engine block or the gas tank and it could all be over.

Charles is back in his head within seconds. _I’m looking and the cops are coming—they’re close—we’ve got to get out of here before we get caught in the middle—_

They already _are_ caught in the middle, Erik thinks viciously. This is his territory. This is as personal as it gets.

The bullets spitting from the chopper’s gun are larger, faster, and stronger than the bullets from the handguns Erik’s used to deflecting. It takes more of an effort than he expects just to nudge them away from the SUV, especially when he’s also making absolutely sure none of the bullets ricochet in Charles’ direction. He doesn’t have leftover energy to bring the chopper down.

_I can’t feel any of their minds_ , Charles says numbly. Erik has never heard him sound so defeated before, Charles’ cold fear permeating the air like an early winter chill. _The men in the helicopter are wearing telepathic blockers. I can’t reach them. I can’t make them stop._

_Get as far back from the alley entrance as you can,_ Erik sends as Azazel drags himself back at last, rifle tucked under one arm. He meets Erik’s gaze and gives him a nod. He’s ready.

_What are you going to—_

_Just get back, Charles!_ Erik snarls, curving the next barrage of bullets towards the opposite side of the street, and a moment later Charles responds tersely, _I’ve hit a brick wall._

It’ll have to be enough. Gritting his teeth, Erik releases his grip on the bullets and focuses all of his power on the completely totalled SUV. He wraps his powers around it, waiting for the next split-second lull between bullet rounds, Azazel cocking the rifle with steady hands—

The helicopter stops firing for half a second, but it’s all Erik needs. He lifts the SUV up high into the air and throws it straight towards the chopper, getting his powers behind the car to push it through the air once it has enough forward momentum on its own. At the same time Azazel takes aim and fires off one single shot, the loud _crack_ right beside Erik barely registering; he’s too busy guiding the bullet straight towards the SUV’s fuel tank, shoving the car up higher when the helicopter tries to rise up out of the way—

The SUV clips the bottom of the chopper right as the bullet slams into the fuel tank, and the resulting fiery, midair explosion consumes the rest of the chopper, the blast of heat hitting Erik like a wall and knocking him off his feet. For a few wild moments Erik can’t hear anything aside from the roar of the fire, dimly aware of a twisted, white-hot chunk of metal spinning wildly through the air before crashing down into the street, snapping power lines and igniting in a second explosion that makes the ground shake.

Erik tries to pick himself up with a small groan, but his ears are ringing and he loses his balance and half-collapses back down, hissing as more pieces of shattered glass slice through his palms. He lifts his head, vision wavering before he’s able to pick out Azazel against a bright backdrop of flames up the street. He’s having an equal amount of trouble righting himself, though at least he’s moving: it means he’s alive. Erik’s hearing cuts back in abruptly, and he notes the loud crackling of the fire before the sound of approaching sirens.

“Erik!” Charles sprints over, heedless of the random bits of shrapnel littering the street. He drops down to his knees at once as soon as he’s beside Erik, getting an arm underneath Erik’s and helping him sit up.

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” Erik assures him, because the bright glow of the fire throws Charles’ white face into sharp relief, “are you—”

The crack of a gunshot echoes down the street followed by the whiz of a bullet, and Charles chokes out a cry as he falls back. Erik isn’t sure what kind of noise escapes his throat as he rockets up to his feet but it certainly isn’t human, dark fury fueling his power to come roaring up out of him like a tidal wave. Behind him Charles is coughing, stirring weakly as he gasps for breath, winded by the force of the bullet colliding with his vest but Erik is beyond reason, reaching forward and ripping up entire pipelines from beneath the street and hurling them towards the source of the gunman who shot Charles. It was a shot to the chest but it could’ve hit Charles in the head and Charles would be—

A fiery beam of pure, focused energy lances forward from behind Erik, slicing through his pipes and igniting the entire alleyway the shot had come from, making the brick glow red-hot as curling flames burst forth like an open furnace. Angel and Alex swoop in, Angel dropping Alex into place beside Erik before coming to a stop hovering overhead, no doubt ready to start spitting acid.

There’s a squeal of tires and more of Erik’s people are jumping out of three more black SUVs, running forward and surrounding Erik, Charles, and Azazel with guns cocked and various mutations primed for a fight.

“Sorry we’re late,” Alex says, and he’s not apologetic but he isn’t joking either. “The police will be here in about two minutes.”

“Get Azazel,” Erik says, and four of his people move at once. “Hawthorne and Chen?”

“Took some losses,” Alex reports grimly as Erik crouches down to get Charles sitting up, brushing bits of glass out of his hair. Charles looks dazed but he presses weary reassurance into Erik’s head, and Erik breathes out for what feels like the first time in an hour. “The police arrived and broke up that firefight but our people got away. They’re headed for the rendezvous point.”

Charles gets his feet under him and together he and Erik heave themselves up. Erik keeps an arm wrapped around him to steady him, but he’d be lying to himself if he didn’t admit he wasn’t leaning against Charles for a little support too. A few feet away, Azazel hisses and snaps something in Russian as he’s lifted, carried carefully past them towards the waiting cars.

“Get Azazel and Charles to Logan,” Erik begins, twisting himself and Charles around to walk after the group but once again Charles digs in his heels.

“I’m staying with you,” he says, deathly calm. Erik doesn’t think to argue.

“Get Azazel to Logan,” Erik says, reangling their path so they’re walking towards a different car instead, “and make sure anyone from the other group who’s injured sees him too.”

“Yes sir,” Alex says, already lifting his phone to his ear while lifting his other arm to gesture for everyone to move out.

Sliding a free hand across Charles’ chest, Erik feels out where the bullet is buried into the strong material. He yanks it out with his powers, letting the crunched bullet fall to the ground with a soft clink. Then he straightens the metal plate inside the vest, smoothing out where it’d caved in until it lies flat again, curved only to the shape of Charles’ body. In his ear, he hears Charles sigh softly in relief, and Erik helps bundle him into the car hoping no one has noticed how much his hands are shaking. Charles will be fine. He’ll probably have a nasty bruise where the bullet hit him, but he shouldn’t even be bleeding. The vest did its job, and now Erik has to do his.

“Let’s go,” Erik orders as he climbs in after Charles, everyone else quickly piling into the SUVs. They’re joined by four others in the back, and Angel slips into the front passenger seat while Proudstar takes the wheel, gunning the engine.

Charles reaches over and takes Erik’s hand as the three cars pull away from the battle scene, screeching around the corner just as the police arrive at the other end of the block.

 

*

 

“What I want to know,” Erik growls through gritted teeth, “is who the _fuck_ is using heavy artillery to declare _war_ on me in _my territory_ in the middle of the damn city.”

A heavy silence follows his words. Charles doesn’t even need to look into the minds of those present to know no one has any answers for their boss.

Erik makes a small noise of disgust and calls the TV remote over to one hand, turning on the TV and filling the silence in the bare living room with a live news report on the local channel.

“—still searching for possible bodies or any other kind of evidence that will give us some kind of clue of what happened here,” the reporter is saying intently to the camera, police lights flashing blue and red behind her beyond the line of yellow tape. Giant floodlights have been installed further down the street, shedding light down onto the mangled, still-smoking wreckage of the helicopter and SUV. “The Chief of Police has confirmed that the helicopter you can see in the wreckage behind me does not belong to police, which only raises more questions. As we reported earlier, several blocks from here a separate gunfight involving alleged members of two gangs broke out earlier this evening as well, and that fight is believed to be linked to the carnage found here in—”

Erik mutes the sound, leaving the image up. “Two gangs. It’s not going to take them long to work up from gangs to crime syndicates, which means sooner or later we’re going to have the police knocking on our door.”

“We’ve already swept down the office,” Alex reports. He looks exhausted, dead on his feet as he stands with his thumbs hooked into his belt loops. All of Erik’s people do, and it’s taking all of Charles’ might to bite his tongue and stop himself from suggesting they break for the night. “Shouldn’t be any traces from us at any of the scenes either. If they come knocking, it’ll just be because they’re grasping around in the dark.”

It’s just past midnight, and they’re still no closer to figuring out who is responsible for launching such a brazen attack. They’re in one of Erik’s safe houses, out in the suburbs on the opposite side of the city. Even Charles has never been here before, the blank white walls and generic white tile floor utterly unfamiliar, which he supposes is the point: if they’re in one of Erik’s less-used houses, then hopefully no one will even know to look here.

Charles has been picking glass out of Erik’s hands with a pair of tweezers for the better part of an hour now, listening as Erik chews out his employees in equal parts rage and frustration. He and Erik have the sole place of honor, sitting on the single couch that comprises the only piece of furniture in the room aside from the flat screen TV hanging on one wall. Fifteen or so of Erik’s top officers stand in various positions around the room, grim faced and weary.

Angel glides back into the room, slipping her phone into a pocket. “Logan called,” she says, “he’s got everyone stable, even Greenly.”

There’s a visible release of a small amount of tension in the room, relief flickering through everyone’s minds. Including Azazel, five of Erik’s people have been injured over the course of the evening, and Greenly with the bullet he’d taken to the chest had been the worst. Logan’s proven himself once again to be nothing less than a miracle-worker.

_Logan deserves a bonus check,_ Charles says to Erik meaningfully, and pulls out another shard of glass pink with blood. He sets it down in the small pile he’s carefully been accumulating on the corner of the black couch cushion, figuring Erik doesn’t care about the state of the furniture in this depressingly bare house.

Erik ignores him, but Charles wasn’t expecting an answer. He can feel Erik’s mind churning at a million miles an hour, going over and over the details of the night and trying to figure out what he’s missing. His employees may be somewhat relaxed now that it’s hours after they’ve cleared the scene, but Erik is still tight and tense, his back ramrod straight. He hasn’t once given any indication he’s noticed Charles is picking the glass out of his hands even though it has to hurt.

Not that Charles is even looking for acknowledgement or thanks. He’d started on Erik’s hands after Alex brought him the tweezers, both of them mutually understanding Erik probably wasn’t going to tolerate anyone else touching him. It’s helping keep Charles busy, too, so he can feel somewhat useful rather than just sitting still, and he doesn’t have to think about how they were all nearly killed tonight.

He likes to think that as a telepath and as someone who’s run around with Erik for long enough, he has a larger tolerance for the type of violence that goes hand-in-hand with the mob. He knows it’s true. Charles isn’t nearly as fazed by some things that would’ve shocked him two years ago. But this is a whole new level of extreme, and is only serving to remind him how no matter what Erik does, Charles himself is still just a regular civilian and this will never be his “normal.”

Blood from Erik’s hands is all over Charles’ jeans, which are torn up anyway. Charles has long since ditched his suit jacket but he hasn’t taken off his bulletproof vest yet; he can feel Erik running his powers across it over and over again, as if subconsciously reassuring himself Charles is still there.

“Spread the word,” Erik says, eyes trained on the muted TV, “ _quietly_. I want every source we have pulled for information. Someone somewhere is going to be talking.” His gaze flickers around across the faces of everyone gathered. “Once you’ve got fresh people on it, go home.”

Murmuring affirmations, everyone shuffles from the living room, down the empty hall towards the front door. Alex gives Charles a small nod on his way out, and Angel switches off the TV.

_I’m heading over to your house to let Rosie out_ , she thinks to Charles as she passes by, brushing one hand lightly across his shoulder. _I’ll take her home with me for the night and bring her to the office tomorrow._

_Thank you, Angel_ , Charles answers her, looking up and sending his relieved gratitude. He hasn’t even thought of Rosie until now, too busy replaying the attack in the street over and over again in numb shock, and he feels a wave of guilt. _I appreciate it._

_No prob, Professor_ , Angel thinks back kindly, _get some rest._ A few moments later the front door of the house shuts and they’re alone.

Blinking wearily, Charles bends his head back down and finishes pulling the last of the glass from Erik’s skin, hoping his tired eyes haven’t missed any of the smaller slivers. He sets the tweezers down, gently smoothing his hands along Erik’s forearms. “We need to rinse and bandage those.”

Now that his employees have left and it’s only Charles, Erik has sagged slightly, allowing his exhaustion to show. It takes him a couple moments, but he opens his eyes and hoists himself to his feet, pulling Charles up too. “Alright.”

Their footsteps echoing abnormally loud in the empty house, Charles allows himself to be led into the kitchen. It’s just as barren as the rest of the house, no appliances save for a white fridge humming quietly and an empty wine rack; even the space where a table and chairs would go is wide and deserted. When Charles moves to start searching through the cupboards, Erik stops him, shaking his head, and guides him over to the nearest bare counter, helping to pick him up and deposit him on the edge so Charles sits with his legs dangling limply, too tired to protest as he watches Erik move over to the sink and stick his hands under the faucet, adding a couple pumps of the generic hand soap with a quiet hiss.

The handles on the cabinets are stainless steel, so Erik doesn’t have to physically move in order to pull them open. Most of them are empty, but Erik’s able to find a half-used roll of paper towels that he immediately rips a large wad off to dry his hands, turning it reddish-pink. Once his hands are dry he lets the soggy ball drop into the sink and pulls a small first aid kit out from one of the cabinets down by the floor.

He brings it over to Charles, setting it down on the counter beside him. “Bandages should be in here.”

Charles twists sideways to pop it open, digging through the meager contents until he finds a roll of them and a tube of disinfectant. Erik draws up close, standing right up against the counter in between Charles’ knees while Charles smears some of the disinfectant cream on and then wraps the bandages around Erik’s hands one at a time, covering up the raw cuts with enough pressure to get them to stop oozing blood, though not leaving the bandages so tight Erik won’t be able to move his fingers.

When he’s done, Charles puts the bandages back into the kit. He feels Erik’s fingers at his chin, deftly turning Charles’ face back to him.

“Are you alright,” Erik murmurs, eyes solemn as he studies Charles intently. His mind has quieted, going from the silent roar it’s been most of the night to a soft, familiar buzz, and the feel of Erik’s undivided attention settled on him is comforting in ways Charles isn’t sure he could verbally express.

“Just tired,” Charles says truthfully. He holds still as Erik begins to unzip his vest, snapping the buttons open manually with his bandaged fingers rather than with his powers. Erik helps him shrug out of it gently, and Charles winces as the motion jars a small spot just above the right side of his ribcage, where the bullet hit him. He looks down but there’s no red stain of blood on his white dress shirt.

“May I,” Erik says, and when Charles nods he starts on the buttons of the dress shirt, undoing them one by one until the fabric has parted, falling to either side of Charles’ chest. Charles finds aside from the definite ache where the bullet hit him, he feels sore all over from wearing the constraining vest for so long; it feels good to bend his spine a little after having it kept straight, slouching where he sits on the counter.

He lifts up the hem of the thin, plain t-shirt he’s wearing beneath the dress shirt, and Erik gently runs a hand up Charles’ stomach, bandages rasping softly against his bare skin. When his fingers draw too close to his ribs, Charles winces again and Erik’s hand stops just below the knot of black and yellow bruised skin.

“It’s just really sore,” Charles says, sliding his hand down to cover Erik’s, stroking his thumb across the ridge of Erik’s knuckles. “It doesn’t hurt to breathe or anything. I think I’ll just ache for awhile.”

“We’ll have Logan look at you tomorrow, just in case,” Erik decides, and Charles doesn’t argue. If Erik wants to take Charles to Logan, then Charles can ask Logan to take a look at Erik too. Just in case. “Make sure your rib isn’t cracked.”

“Okay,” Charles answers agreeably, and slowly Erik’s gaze lifts to meet his own.

“Where else?”

Charles thinks about it. “My knees,” he says, and at once Erik’s hands drop down to rest on top of Charles’ thighs. Six hours ago, in the backseat of the SUV after leaving the warehouse, Erik’s touch on his legs had been suggestive and arousing. Now his touch is careful and gentle as he starts on the zipper of Charles’ jeans.

“Let’s get these off.”

It takes some maneuvering. Charles kicks off his shoes and socks first, and pulls his arms out of his dress shirt, discarding it to the side. Then he braces his palms against the countertop in order to lift himself up by a small degree, in order for Erik to get his ruined jeans down past his hips. Erik peels them off his legs one at a time, and then Charles is left in nothing but his boxers and a t-shirt, still sitting on the counter for Erik’s inspection.

His knees are moderately scraped up, though it doesn’t seem serious. Erik checks for glass, finding a single, tiny shard in one of the cuts on Charles’ right knee. He summons the tweezers from the living room and pulls it out, and then uses some more of the paper towels to gently scrub both of Charles’ knees with some warm water and a tiny bit of soap. It stings, but Charles lets him work, watching Erik’s face rather than Erik’s hands as Erik applies some of the disinfectant ointment from the medkit on the worst of the cuts. As with everything he does, Erik is concentrated fully on his self-appointed task, all of his considerable attention focused on spreading the ointment evenly. His mind is calming further, soothed by the motions of taking care of Charles while Charles sits back and allows him to.

When he’s finished, a couple of carefully-placed bandaids on Charles’ knees, Charles catches his hand before he can turn away. “Thank you.”

Erik stills, and doesn’t answer. There are a hundred things he could say, just as there are a hundred more things Charles could say back. I’m glad you’re alright. I’m glad you weren’t more seriously hurt. I’m glad you’re here with me.

But they don’t say these kind of things. They never do. It’s how their relationship works; they don’t have to say them. They both already know.

Sitting on the counter puts Charles at an equal height to Erik, and all Erik has to do is lean forward slightly in order to kiss him, a little too slow and heated to be considered chaste but nothing edging towards a promise of anything more. Erik’s warm, solid presence pressed up against Charles’ front is comforting and grounding, his mind fully open and receptive to Charles. With a soft sigh Charles sinks into Erik, immersing himself in his pool of thoughts as an extra reassurance for them both that all is well.

_I’m not afraid_ , Charles tells him in so many feelings rather than words, because he isn’t. He had been, nearly mad with helpless terror when he’d made the discovery that not even he could stop their attackers, the ultimate failsafe of his telepathy worthless against the blockers, but Charles knows it isn’t that kind of fear Erik worries about. _I’m not going anywhere._

The relief that fills Erik is quiet but fierce, filling up all the gaps between them until Charles feels it in his own chest, an odd lump forming in his throat at the same time.

“Let’s go to bed,” Erik says when they part, resting his forehead against Charles’ for a few moments longer before slowly withdrawing.

Charles hums his agreement, sliding down off the counter while Erik stores the first aid kit away. Erik takes his hand and they walk together through the house, out of the kitchen and through the living room, lights flicking off in their wake, and down the hall where the bedrooms are. Two of them are empty, when Charles glances inside as they pass, without a single piece of furniture, but the master bedroom at the end of the hall houses a king-sized bed, and Charles gratefully crawls up onto the cool, soft sheets towards the pillows.

_Need anything else?_ Erik asks him as he prowls along the edge of the room, checking the windows and sending one last text message out by jabbing at his phone’s screen with one thumb.

_No_ , Charles says. He feels gritty, but he’s too tired for a shower, and while he’d never gotten the Thai food Erik had promised what seems like a year ago now, earlier one of Erik’s men had brought back a bunch of chicken sandwiches from the nearest fast food joint for everyone. He should be able to keep till morning. _Come to bed, Erik._

He feels Erik spread his powers out across the whole house, melting every lock into place, and then Erik kicks off his shoes and strips down to the same amount of clothes Charles has on, quick and efficient. He climbs up onto the bed and switches off the light in one motion, plunging them into darkness, but they don’t need to be able to see in order to arrange themselves comfortably—spooning, with Erik as the big spoon tonight since Charles can tell he’s still half in protective mode, comforter thrown over them haphazardly for warmth.

For his part, Charles relaxes in Erik’s arms and tangles their legs together too, faintly surprised Erik didn’t insist staying up all night making rounds and doing further work towards hunting down those responsible for the attack. Charles certainly isn’t about to complain, since he has a feeling this will be the last amount of rest Erik will be getting for awhile, after tonight.

It also means Erik is right here with him, where Charles can keep him safe, since Erik isn’t the only one who needs to be sure they’re both alright.

 


	2. Chapter 2

 

In the morning Erik wakes to a noseful of Charles’ hair. Having spent most of the night too keyed up to fall fully asleep, Erik can’t remember when he finally dozed off at last, but he’s willing to bet it hadn’t been too long ago. Charles, fortunately, is still out cold, breathing the long, slow breaths of the deeply asleep, and Erik is glad his churning thoughts hadn’t kept Charles awake too.

Without moving from his position wrapped around Charles from behind, Erik summons his phone from the floor to his hand by grabbing the metal case with his powers, yanking it off the charger plugged into the outlet. He has several new messages, and he flips through them quickly, reading over the top of Charles’ head, but all of them amount to the same thing: there’s still no indication as to who bombed the hell out of them last night.

Dropping his phone onto the bedspread, Erik considers his options. His people have already regrouped, and according to their reports there have been no other casualties or attacks on any of Erik’s other businesses—it appears to have been a single attack on Erik personally. No one’s come forward to take credit, but it might be just a tactic to make Erik sweat it out during the night. Someone might come forward today.

The police and news channels are still focused on the downed helicopter for now, but it won’t be long before they switch focus. The news Erik isn’t so worried about; they’ll take their cues from the police while speculating wildly about terrorist attacks in the meantime. The police, however, are a different matter. It won’t be long until officers start dropping in on all the mafia dons in the city for a little casual questioning. It’s a good thing Erik’s made it a personal point to never get into drug trafficking, because those who have will be the police’s first suspects. It’ll buy him a little extra time as they work down the list from there.

Luckily too there haven’t been reports on any civilian casualties, according to Angel’s message. The attack was planned well, catching Erik while he was in an older shopping district already closed down for the night, so anyone else still in the neighborhood had immediately fled as soon as the first gunshot went off. It’s safe to assume, then, that this was personal.

Erik can already feel the urge to pace, restless already despite a night of very little sleep. There’s still the matter of Charles, however, which is bothering him just as much as the attack itself.

That Charles had been with him while they’d been under heavy fire is unforgivable, regardless of whether or not their attacker knew who Charles is and what his significance is to Erik. Ever since Charles was shot by Guerrero and his thugs six months ago, Erik has made it an even higher priority than ever to keep Charles as safe as possible. He still uses Charles for cases like last night, where extracting information from rival syndicates is necessary, but otherwise he keeps Charles far away from the feuds and blood wars of the mob.

It’s warm beneath the sheets, but Erik doesn’t move to push them away. He still has one arm thrown casually over Charles’ side, and he uses it to shift Charles back against himself even more, hand drifting down to rest lightly on Charles’ belly. He still can’t figure out how Charles is processing all of this.

Last night Charles’ hands had been perfectly steady as he’d picked out every last shard of glass in Erik’s hands, and later in the kitchen when it’d been just the two of them Charles had seemed more sleepy than worried. But as much as Charles is willing to lend Erik the service of his telepathy, or attend formal events as Erik’s plus-one, Charles is still a civilian. He’s a university professor more accustomed to lecturing in front of students than facing machine gun fire in the middle of the street.

Erik’s already made the mistake once of allowing Charles to be hurt, and he’s sworn to himself to never let it happen again. Last night had come far too close to something even worse. He’s going to find the bastards responsible for the attack, even if he has to tear down half the city to get to them, and then he’s going to pay them back in kind tenfold.

In his arms Charles stirs, shifting a little as he stretches, his telepathy flickering between them like a tiny lit candle. “You know I can’t sleep when you’re thinking about ripping people apart and burning cities,” he murmurs, even as he rolls over and tucks his face into the side of Erik’s neck.

Erik draws him in a little closer. “Sorry.”

“It’s all right. What time is it?”

“Around seven.”

Charles groans, eyes screwed tightly shut. “I have to get up. I have class.”

“You also have a possibly-cracked rib,” Erik says, arms tightening around him. He wants to say, _You can’t go to class today. Someone tried to blow us the fuck up yesterday. You can’t go anywhere until I know it’s safe. Until I know_ you’re _safe._ But he knows saying something like that will only make Charles stiffen and pull away. He’s still faintly annoyed at how protective Erik had gotten after Guerrero, and any sign Erik’s reverting to that level of overbearing will only turn Charles’ mood sour.

“Don’t think so loudly,” Charles says, but he doesn’t sound angry, just tired. He pulls himself closer, slipping one leg between Erik’s, arm wrapped around Erik’s back. “Wake me up in half an hour, all right? I need a shower.”

“Call in sick today.”

“Erik—”

“Just today. You can go back to class tomorrow, but I want you safe today.” When Charles is silent, Erik adds softly, “Please.”

Charles goes still for a moment. Then his hand on Erik’s back begins to rub slowly, gently. “Okay.”

Relief loosens some of the tension in Erik’s shoulders. That’s one less thing to worry about now.

“But,” Charles adds, “I want to help.”

“Help?”

“Help find who did this. Who attacked us.”

Erik shakes his head automatically. “No. Out of the question. I put you in the line of fire once this week, I won’t do it again.”

Charles pushes himself back, his mouth tight. “Don’t dismiss me when I want to help, Erik. You’re not the only one who’s worried. Youcould have died yesterday, too, don’t forget that.” He breathes in long and deep. “ _I_ could have lost _you_. How do you think that makes me feel?”

For a long moment they stare at each other grimly, the bright morning sunlight edging in through the cracks of the closed blinds over the window illuminating Charles from behind, throwing a shadow across his face and seeming to deepen his frown. Erik doesn’t want to budge on this, his instincts telling him to convince Charles to take an entire week off from work before shipping him out of the state entirely. The lodge in Colorado is lovely this time of year, plenty of beautiful scenery and fresh air with the added bonus of a location on the other side of the continent, perfectly remote.

The problem, though, is Azazel is hardly likely to be able to travel long distances like the one between New York and Colorado while his leg is still newly-broken and fragile. He can already hear Logan working himself up into an angry rant about overtaxing the injured without giving them the proper amount of time to heal. Erik could always put Charles in the jet, but right now any form of aircraft seems incredibly vulnerable, especially if their enemies are already flying around in helicopters with machine guns.

“Also,” Charles says coolly, because of course he’s listening in, “there’s the fact I would never forgive you if you sent me off somewhere against my will.”

“Just last week you told me you wanted to see the lodge,” Erik grumbles, even though that isn’t the point. Gently he tips Charles out of his head, and Charles goes willingly. They’ve been over this form of argument before, back when Charles was shot by Guerrero. Pushing Charles away in order to protect him isn’t worth it. Slowly, Erik slides a hand across the bedspread to cup Charles’ cheek with his bandaged fingers. “You’ll wear the vest.”

“When we’re in transit,” Charles allows, “otherwise I don’t need it on all day if we’re just going to go hole up in your office.”

Erik bites his tongue before he can argue. This is far better than Charles wanting out, and never wanting anything to do with Erik ever again, he reminds himself. He’d be lying if dreading this kind of reaction hadn’t also been part of what had kept him up all night despite knowing Charles is made from as much iron as Erik himself is. “I don’t know where we’ll be yet. But fine, when we’re in transit.”

“You’re the one who wanted me to take the day off,” Charles points out.

“Stay close to me,” Erik answers in lieu of all the other things crowding the tip of his tongue, stroking Charles’ cheek. He can protect Charles. He was enough last night, he can be enough again today.

Charles smiles, faint but warm, tilting his head into the touch. “That is the plan,” he says dryly, but he sounds too fond for it to be cutting.

“Make your call, and take a shower if you’d like,” Erik says before he’s tempted to scrap the entire day by spending it in bed with Charles. He sits up, pushing back the covers. “Take your time.”

“I’ll need to borrow your phone for that,” Charles says with a soft sigh, sitting up as well. “Mine’s still out in the pocket of my jeans and probably dead by now.”

Erik slides it over to him, and then swings his legs over the side of the bed, standing up to wander out of the bedroom to leave Charles to it. The house is cold and empty, and when Erik stretches out his powers, all the locks on the doors and windows are still soldered shut, undisturbed. He reforms the lock on the front door, but leaves the others melted in place. He steps into the kitchen, finding Charles’ clothes from yesterday piled on the ground, and the still-soggy paper towels sitting in the bottom of the sink. Erik reaches over the sink and flicks open the blinds on the window, looking out into the dewy front yard and quiet, empty street.

“I’m going to get myself sacked at this rate,” Charles says mildly, appearing in the doorway. Barefoot on the tile and wearing nothing but a t-shirt and boxers with his hair rumpled from sleep, Charles looks more like they’d spent a debauched night in last night rather than escaping a wild shootout and running from the cops. “With all the time I’ve taken off on short notice this year and whatnot.”

“If they try to fire you they’ll answer to me,” Erik says absently, taking his phone back when Charles hands it to him and watching a slowly-passing white van carefully. The van has darkly tinted windows but it doesn’t stop, continuing on down to the end of the block, and with his powers Erik feels it take a right, trundling off towards the city.

“You aren’t allowed to set foot on campus,” Charles reminds him, but he doesn’t sound half as sharp as he usually does whenever the subject comes up. There’s a small pause. “I’m off to shower, then.”

Erik tears his gaze away from the window, flicking the blinds shut and reaching over to take Charles’ hand and pull him in close. “Alright,” he says, and then kisses him soundly, their noses brushing and stubble scraping gently.

“Morning breath,” Charles protests, but he pecks Erik on the lips once more with a small smile before pushing him away and disappearing back towards the bedroom.

Erik waits until he hears the shower turn on before hitting speed dial.

He spends the majority of Charles’ shower making a few choice calls, standing in the kitchen leaned casually against the counter. By the time he’s hung up on his last call, he feels a car pull into the driveway and then Alex knocks on the front door once to be let in, carrying two garment bags and a paper bag with bagels.

Alex has known Erik too long to be shocked by the sight of his boss in his boxers, stomping into the kitchen and barely blinking. “Still quiet at the office,” he says in greeting, tossing the food onto the counter, “no visits from the police yet.” He hesitates a half beat, clearly unsure if he’s overstepping any boundaries before asking, “How’s Charles?”

“Give it till this afternoon,” Erik answers, unconcerned by what the police are doing at this point. He nods at the garment bags. “He’s fine. I’ll take those.”

Looking genuinely relieved by the news, Alex holds them out and Erik lifts them up into the air with his powers by the hangers, walking back towards the bedroom with the bags drifting along behind him. The shower has stopped but Erik can hear the sink running, so after tossing the garment bags onto the bed he taps on the bathroom door once before opening it and slipping inside.

Charles stands at the sink, damp towel wrapped around his waist and shaving cream covering his face and neck as he shaves with quick, practiced motions. On the counter there are several opened packages for a toothbrush and the razor, so he must have helped himself to the stock in the cupboard. Sidling up next to him, Erik takes half a moment to appreciate the smooth glide of sharp metal across Charles’ skin. In the foggy mirror, Charles catches his eye and grins, a brief image of the last time he let Erik shave him flickering through Erik’s mind.

“Maybe next time,” Erik says, the idea tempting enough to extract a promise from him. He settles a hand at the base Charles’ bare back lightly, sliding his thumb just beneath the edge of the towel. The bruise from the bullet on his ribcage is still an ugly, mottled mess, but at least Charles doesn’t seem to be having any trouble breathing. “Garment bag for you on the bed. Alex is in the kitchen, he brought breakfast.”

“Thank you,” Charles says, wiping his face off. He drops the washcloth on the edge of the sink and then gives Erik a friendly nudge as he slides past. “See you in a few.”

Erik misses the warmth of him immediately, but makes himself focus. He twists on the shower by feeling out the temperature handle with his powers while he strips quickly, and steps under the spray to take one of his shorter, more efficient showers, though he does spend a solid couple of minutes carefully peeling the bandages on his fingers away. By the time he’s dried off, brushed his teeth, shaved, and redressed in his own fresh suit, he emerges from the bedroom to find Charles and Alex settled in the living room in the middle of a friendly chat, and Charles has obviously convinced Alex to have one of the bagels.

“...really quite pleasant,” Charles is saying, stirring milk into his tea. As Erik comes over, Charles reaches over and pulls him down into the seat beside him. “I’m telling Alex how nice college is, especially for bright young men like him.”

“You’re trying to lure my men away from me?” Erik asks with some amusement.

“And your women,” Charles says, smiling. “I’ve talked Angel into buying a GED study manual.”

“Don’t worry, boss,” Alex says. “I’m only staying until I finish this bagel.”

“Good,” Erik says absently, scrolling through his phone and glancing through the handful of new messages that have come in. He looks up again, however, when Charles clears his throat, and finds Charles giving Alex a significant look. “Well?”

Alex clears his throat too, considerably more nervous now. “I was...well, I was talking to Charles and he said it’d be okay if I asked you if, um…”

“Spit it out, kid,” Erik says.

Charles jabs him with his elbow. _This is important, Erik._

“I know this isn’t a good time,” Alex says, already cringing a little. Charles nods at him encouragingly, so Alex gathers himself and continues in a single rush, “But tonight Scotty’s class is putting on a school play at the elementary school and I promised him weeks ago I’d go watch him and his foster parents even said it’d be okay if I took him out afterwards for ice cream but I know we’re kind of at war right now so I understand if you—”

Erik pulls a couple twenties out of his wallet and thrusts them at Alex, who takes them gingerly as if he expects them to explode. “Get him one of those five-scoop monstrosities or something,” Erik says gruffly, “and check in with someone afterwards so we know you haven’t been clipped.”

“Yes sir,” Alex says faintly, taken aback, but he recovers and adds quickly, “thank you so much, I, I really—”

“Go back to the office,” Erik says pointedly, and Alex leaps up to his feet and is out the door in under ten seconds.

Charles is grinning at him, his eyes soft. “Thank you, Erik.”

“I didn’t do it for you,” Erik grumbles, which is truthful enough. He might’ve not given Alex forty bucks straight from his own pocket if Charles hadn’t been watching, but he’d have still let Alex go see his kid brother. He knows how proud Alex is of Scott, and how hard Alex has worked in the past few years to turn himself around in order to be allowed to visit Scott wherever the foster system has placed him.

_I know_ , Charles answers with a smile. “He’s thinking about petitioning again so Scott can live with him,” he says aloud, lacing their fingers together. “I think his chances are really good this time.”

“As long as he omits he’s working for the mob,” Erik says dryly.

“I do that all the time,” Charles says blithely, and Erik snorts.

“Get your vest on,” he says, standing as he feels another mass of metal pull up outside the house followed by his phone giving a small beep, “our ride is here.”

Charles drains the last of his tea and rises, reaching out for Erik and Erik holds obediently still as Charles straightens his tie for him. “Eat a bagel,” he says, and then moves off towards the kitchen to grab his vest.

Erik snags the uneaten half of Charles’ bagel and gulps it down in three bites, following Charles to help him get his suit jacket on once he’s zipped himself into his vest. Charles bends down awkwardly to fish his phone out of the pocket of his discarded trousers from yesterday and then Erik herds him out the door, locking up behind them with his powers. He has people who will swing by later in order to clean up and leave the safe house as spotless and empty as it was when they first arrived.

“The limo?” Charles asks skeptically when he catches sight of the car idling at the end of the driveway. “Isn’t that a little conspicuous?”

“It’s about image,” Erik answers, lifting a hand to pull the car door open with his powers as they approach. “If we take an anonymous car, or a caravan of SUVs, to anyway watching it looks like we’re afraid. If we take the limo, we’re easily recognizable but we don’t look like we’ve been shaken or are trying to hide.”

“So you paint a large target on your back to prove you’ve got balls,” Charles says dubiously.

“Essentially,” Erik says calmly, gesturing for him to get in first.

“Barking mad,” Charles muses, and climbs into the limo.

Erik rolls his eyes and folds himself down into the car, pulling the door shut. As soon as it slams, Janos presses down on the gas and they glide away from the sidewalk, picking up speed and heading out of the quiet neighborhood. Erik scoots further in along the seat, pressed up against Charles’ side and the reassuring cocoon of metal around him.

“Morning boss, morning Charles,” Angel greets them, sitting on the seat that takes up the left side of the cab. “Rosie’s being entertained back at the office by some of the guys, but she’ll be happy to see you again.” She passes Erik the tablet in her lap. “Compiled all the statements from our sources we got last night. Not that there’s very many,” she adds bitterly, “I’ve never seen something like this before, where no one is clamoring to take credit for such a shitshow. And everyone we talked to was tight-lipped as hell.”

Ignoring the sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, Erik skims through the open document on the screen. It’s not a good sign no one is shouting from the proverbial rooftops to take credit for such a bold move. Normally it would be a perfect opportunity for an organization to prove their dominance: a form of _look at us, look how powerful we are and what we can do_. But if no one is…

_They’re not done yet_ , Charles finishes quietly, even as he exchanges a few pleasantries with Angel, asking after Rosie some more. _They want to stamp you out._

_They can try,_ Erik replies grimly. Finished reading, he hands the tablet back to Angel. Her summation had been correct: all of their eyes and ears scattered across various parts of the city have sworn they don’t know a thing.

“Do you think it could be a foreign syndicate?” Charles asks aloud. “Someone new trying to edge into the city and set up territory for themselves?”

“No,” Erik rules the possibility out at once. “If it was someone new, everyone would be up in arms about it since a newcomer could potentially screw up everyone’s businesses. This is local.”

“I still don’t get why no one’s said anything,” Angel says, frustrated, “we couldn’t even find some minor grunt in a bar somewhere getting drunk and bragging about it.”

“Is that usually what happens,” Charles asks dryly, sounding amused.

“You wouldn’t believe how easy this normally is,” Angel answers with a sigh. “There’s always at least one loudmouth somewhere, you know?” Her eyes light. “Charles, do you think you’d be able to find anything with your telepathy?”

“Unfortunately, no,” Charles says ruefully. “There are over eight million people living in the city, it’d be like trying to find a needle in a constantly-shifting and changing haystack.”

“Worth a shot of asking,” Angel sighs, leaning back against the seat.

Charles asks her how her grandmother is doing, and without really meaning to Erik tunes their conversation out, staring at the window without really seeing the passing streets and buildings as the limo winds its way through town. Someone’s trying to fuck with him, shooting him up and then disappearing, like this is some kind of game or joke. It’s infuriating, a low-level buzz of annoyance simmering constantly just beneath his skin, which is only beginning to compound at the thought of someone finding this amusing.

But the radio silence won’t last forever. Sooner or later they’ll slip up and when Erik catches up to them, he’ll show them just how serious he can be. Retribution, after all, has always been his specialty.

 

*

 

Logan’s clinic is situated at the end of a shabby little strip mall, next to a tiny little Chinese food place with their entire menu plastered over the windows and blocking the view inside. The cracked and faded parking lot is mostly empty, with only two or three cars parked outside the dingy laundromat a few units down, so Janos is able to pull right up to the curb, parking the limo sideways across five empty parking spots.

Clarice stands waiting and ready to receive them, her purple-streaked hair pulled back into a neat bun. As soon as the limo has come to a complete stop, she reaches forward and pulls open the door so Erik can climb out, Charles following behind him.

“Boss,” she says calmly, and then quirks a brief smile at Charles, thinking carefully, _Hello, Charles._

_Good morning,_ Charles replies warmly, _nice to see you._

_Likewise_ , she answers. “Shall we?”

“Take us straight in,” Erik orders.

Fascinated, Charles watches as Clarice casually turns her hand palm-up and flicks her wrist, tossing out a small ball of bright purple light. It hovers a couple feet ahead of them and then expands, opening a window in the air outlined by the shimmering purple light. Now instead of looking at the dusty front windows of Logan’s clinic, they can see right into what must serve as his ICU, a large room with several beds surrounded by equipment lined up along the wall, several of them filled with Erik’s people. Clarice gestures them forward, so Charles walks through the portal with Angel after Erik, passing across a couple hundred feet of space in a single step.

Several more of Erik’s people stand in various positions around the room, serving as guards to the injured. When they see Erik arrive, they all visibly straighten, attentive and alert. Charles sees Azazel down at the end of the row of beds, reclined back with his leg propped up in a sling, wrapped tightly in a cast.

A door off to the side of the room opens, and Logan sticks his head into the room. Charles tries not to laugh at how flat his expression gets once he catches sight of Erik, approaching the group with a truly put-upon air. At the same time, Clarice quietly closes her portal behind them and the parking lot disappears from view.

“Your little party is all over the news, Lehnsherr,” Logan says from around the tongue depressor clamped between his teeth, coming to a stop and folding his arms. His generic scrubs strain a little across his biceps. “You’re lucky you’ve got me because if you took ’em to a regular hospital every single one of your boys would’ve been reported.”

“Your insight is, as always, enlightening,” Erik responds, sounding less than pleased. Charles puts a hand on the small of Erik’s back absently, rubbing gently as he continues to look around the tidy room. Most of the men in the beds are sleeping, but a couple, Azazel included, are watching blearily through barely-cracked-open eyes.

“I’ll bet,” Logan says, unimpressed. “Everyone’s still stable. I think we’ve come through the worst of it.”

“Good,” Erik says, and while his voice is clipped Charles can still make out the genuine relief Erik keeps well-hidden, deep down where no one else can detect it. “I need you to take a look at Charles.”

“Good morning, Logan,” Charles says as the doctor’s gaze flickers over him immediately in assessment. “Thank you for all your help.”

“Morning,” Logan grunts. “Looks fine to me.”

“I was shot,” Charles explains before Erik can lash out with the temper currently building over his head like a storm cloud, “and luckily I was wearing a bulletproof vest but I’d like the extra assurance I haven’t cracked a rib.”

“Come with me, then,” Logan says, taking the tongue depressor out of his mouth to gesture vaguely towards the double doors at the other end of the room, “examination rooms are a little more private.”

“Thank you,” Charles says, moving to step forward, but Erik catches his wrist.

_Should I come?_ Erik asks, carefully neutral. Without needing to look, Charles knows Erik wants to accompany Charles if he’s welcome, but also doesn’t want to be pushy.

Surprisingly, this is something Erik worries about often when he thinks Charles isn’t paying attention, which Charles finds oddly sweet. Erik is about as self-entitled as they come, being who and what he is, but his worrying about unintentionally pushing Charles away by being too overbearing has become more pronounced ever since they moved in together. If Charles had ever had any concerns about Erik being too controlling in the first place, they most certainly would’ve been dispelled for good.

_I don’t think you need to_ , Charles answers, turning his hand over in Erik’s grip so he can give Erik a gentle squeeze. _I’ll be fine. Go catch up with Azazel._

_Call if you need anything_ , Erik says, letting go reluctantly, and Charles presses a small sensation of a kiss to the corner of Erik’s mouth as a promise.

He follows Logan out the double doors into a dimly-lit hallway, ancient wallpaper cracked and peeling with old, out-of-date medical posters depicting things like the nervous system and other diagrams of various organs lining the walls. The linoleum floor is squeaky clean, however, and the faint scent of antiseptic hangs heavily in the air as Logan leads him into a small examination room that looks like it hasn’t been updated since the early 90s.

“Take a seat,” Logan says, indicating the table covered with a long, paper sheet. While Charles hoists himself up onto the edge, Logan sinks down onto a small, rolling stool and digs around in a drawer. “How’s the knee been, Chuck?”

“Perfect,” Charles reports honestly, “it hasn’t so much as twinged in weeks, though sometimes it gets a little stiff on rainy days.”

“That can happen,” Logan agrees, pulling on a pair of latex gloves with a snap. “What’d you think of Deadpool?” he asks, and his voice is slightly too casual.

Charles snorts. “Erik wasn’t amused at all, if that’s what you’re really asking.”

Logan barks out a laugh, scooting over to the table. “I didn’t think he would be. Part of the reason why I recommended him in the first place—aside from how he really is the best at what he does.” He shakes his head. “Crazy fuck.”

“I think he had me walking a full month before I think I normally would’ve been,” Charles agrees. “In a way, I was almost sad when our sessions were over. He certainly made life exciting.”

“Whatever you say, Chuck,” Logan says, eyebrows lifted. “Speaking of life being exciting…”

“Right,” Charles says, unbuttoning his jacket before getting to work on the vest underneath. If Logan is surprised to see Charles still wearing a bulletproof vest, he doesn’t comment on it, merely waiting as Charles frees himself from the extra layer before starting on the buttons of his dress shirt.

“Lie back,” Logan commands, fishing a tiny cloth pillow out of a cabinet and sliding it under Charles’ head as he obediently lies down on the table, paper crinkling softly.

Logan’s hands are deft as he lifts up Charles’ thin t-shirt, but Charles still winces when his fingers come into contact with the ugly bruise on his ribcage, the area still sensitive and sore. Logan withdraws his touch from the center of the bruise but his cool fingers trace around the edges of it for a moment, while Charles stares up at the ceiling and does his best to hold still.

“Any problems with breathing?”

“No.”

“Take a deep breath, all the way in, and hold it until I say.”

Charles does as commanded, filling his lungs tentatively at first, wary of pain, but he feels nothing aside from the small burn of stretching his bruised skin.

“Okay,” Logan says a few moments later, and Charles breathes out. “Any sharp pain?”

“No, still just sore.”

“I’m going to press down a little on it now,” Logan warns him, “so it’ll probably hurt, but tell me if you feel anything close to blackout pain.”

“Okay,” Charles says, and tries not to groan as Logan presses down on his ribs beneath the bruise, feeling them out carefully. It hurts, unpleasant jabs of pain shooting out through Charles’ torso, but he doesn’t feel like he’s about to pass out.

“Good,” Logan says at last, withdrawing his hands, and Charles nearly sighs in relief. “Nothing’s broken, and I don’t think anything’s cracked either, but I’ll take some x-rays just to make sure, and to shut Lehnsherr up.” He pulls off his gloves, tossing them in the trashcan. “You’re lucky you had that vest on,” he says frankly as Charles sits up again gingerly, “otherwise you would’ve had a slow, painful death.”

“Cheers,” Charles says flatly and Logan huffs out a laugh.

“Stay here for now, gotta give the machine time to warm up,” Logan says, standing, “and you might as well start shedding some of those layers. I’ll be back with a gown.”

_All’s fine_ , Charles sends to Erik as Logan leaves, _we’re just going to take some x-rays to be sure._

_Good_ , is the instant response, and Charles catches a wave of jumbled Russian. Erik must still be talking to Azazel. _Take your time._

_We will_ , Charles responds, faintly amused, and then gently withdraws from Erik’s mind to keep from distracting him further. He hops off the table and starts pulling off his layers, as Logan designated them, piling them neatly.

Logan comes back in, and hands him a white hospital gown. “You can keep your pants on, we’re just looking at your chest. But take off your belt and make sure your pockets are empty. Lose the shoes, too.”

“I hope you didn’t have other patients to take care of that we’re interrupting,” Charles says as he complies, digging his phone out of his pocket. He’ll need to borrow a charger at some point, the battery is long dead.

“Nah,” Logan says, jotting a few things down on a clipboard in his messy doctor’s scrawl, “it’s a free clinic so I take ’em as they come. Usually if it’s more serious I refer them to the nearest hospital anyway, but Lehnsherr’s people are always the exception.”

Unbuckling his belt, Charles wonders if Logan accepts donations. He’s working out how to phrase the question without coming across as too condescending when Logan completely derails his train of thought.

“You’re extremely calm about this,” he says bluntly, studying Charles with an unreadable expression. He’s got the tongue depressor back in his mouth, chewing on it thoughtfully.

“This?” Charles asks blankly, not following. Part of Logan’s mutation keeps his mind muffled from Charles’ telepathy, so he can’t sneak a quick look either.

“Getting shot at by a goddamn machine gun in the middle of the city,” Logan says, in a tone that indicates he thought it was rather obvious. “Not exactly something the average civilian witnesses in real life, let alone experiences.”

“Oh,” Charles says. Slowly, he slips on the hospital gown. “I suppose my telepathy helps. I’m very good at compartmentalization. Or maybe it just hasn’t fully sunk in, I don’t know.” Inwardly, he had been wondering too why he wasn’t feeling the least bit freaked out by last night’s events. Looking back on it even today, it still feels like a very vivid dream. “It scares me there are people loose in the city who don’t seem to care about casualties,” he continues after a pause, “but…”

He trusts Erik, he realizes. At Erik’s side he feels utterly safe and untouchable, and he’s confident Erik will put a very final end to whoever is responsible for the attack once they find out who it is. He’s confident in his own abilities, too, and knows he’ll be able to help Erik stop them—preferably with the least amount of bloodshed possible, but Charles isn’t so naive to ignore how mob conflicts usually play out. That’s just part of the reality pill he’d needed to swallow upon getting tangled up with Erik in the first place. But perhaps this is why Charles doesn’t feel panicked or upset. Last night had been a close call, but it had never crossed his mind they might not come out alive, even when Charles couldn’t touch their enemies’ minds.

Overconfidence is dangerous, Charles knows, but he can’t help it. Erik is too strong to ever imagine in defeat, and Charles holds the same belief towards his own powers. It just seems...impossible.

Logan must read something in Charles’ expression, because he shrugs. “As long as you’re not about to have a meltdown on my floor,” he mutters, and Charles grins once Logan’s turned away. Like Erik, Logan has a large conscience too, even if neither of them will ever admit it. “Follow me, let’s get these x-rays taken before Lehnsherr lays an egg.”

In the end, the x-rays show nothing alarming, so Logan releases him with orders to Charles to avoid overstraining himself and further orders to Erik to keep Charles from overstraining himself. Erik promises to do so, and Logan doesn’t bother pressing any further—whatever differences they might have, Logan knows Charles’s health and safety is one of Erik’s top priorities.

Ten minutes later, after Erik has left Azazel to doze back off again and made brief rounds by his other injured and currently conscious men, Charles finds himself zipped back up into his vest and packed into the back of the limo again. Clarice joins them this time, sitting next to Angel as Janos pulls away from the clinic. It’s a silent ride back across the city to Erik’s building, Angel preoccupied with her tablet and Clarice maintaining her calm silence. Beside Charles, Erik’s mind is churning, brooding up a veritable storm as he stares out the window sightlessly once more.

Charles himself is almost beginning to wish he’d asked if he could just be dropped off back at their house. He’s feeling drowsy from the painkiller Logan had given him right before they left to help with the soreness, though fortunately it doesn’t seem to be affecting his telepathy. It would feel nice to curl up in his own bed and rest, even though logically he knows going home is currently impossible: not only does he doubt Erik wants him out of his sight today, but there’s no telling if their enemies, whoever they are, know where their house is and are watching it.

Janos gets the door for them once they arrive, and Clarice uses her powers again so they’re able to bypass the street, stepping straight from the sidewalk pavement onto the marble tiles of the lobby, right outside of the elevator. It’s a quick ride up to the top floor of the building, and Erik herds Charles into his office, giving Angel and Clarice a brief signal before pushing the door shut.

“What now?” Charles asks, covering up a small yawn.

“Strategy meeting,” Erik says tersely, walking around the side of his desk and rifling through a few loose papers. “You can come if you’d like, but I don’t know how many details you actually want to know.”

Charles takes a moment to consider. “Can I just stay here?”

“All yours,” Erik says, swiveling his comfortable leather chair around to face Charles invitingly. Charles cracks a smile and goes over to sit down, allowing Erik to turn him back around so he faces the sleeping computer screens. “Feel free to check your email or whatever. You know what files to stay away from.”

“Sure,” Charles says, and a moment later he makes a small contented sound when Erik’s broad hands slide down to massage his shoulders. “Mm, don’t stop.”

Erik actually laughs, and Charles tilts his head back to grin at him. “If you need anything, you know how to find me.”

“Actually, where’s your phone charger?” Charles asks. “I might as well charge my phone while I’m in here.”

“Check around in the drawers,” Erik says with a shrug, “there’s one around here somewhere. I’ll see you in a bit. This hopefully won’t take too long.”

“I’ll be here,” Charles says, and meets Erik halfway when he leans down for a kiss, brief but warm. Some of Erik’s satisfaction at having Charles safely contained in his fortress-like office leaks out and Charles gives a muffled laugh, which only makes Erik kiss him harder.

A knock comes on the door. “Erik?” Alex asks through the thick wood, fortunately wise enough not to enter uninvited.

“I’ll be there in a moment,” Erik calls, and Charles feels Alex withdraw.

“Go order your minions around,” Charles says, and Erik sighs.

“See you in a bit,” he repeats, letting go of Charles and making his way back around the desk. He slips out the door, shutting it behind him, his mind already millions of miles away.

The first thing Charles does is take off the vest again, letting it drop to the floor beside his chair before he idly wakes Erik’s computer up. He punches in the password and while he waits for the desktop to load he digs through Erik’s drawers and comes up with a charger, finally plugging his phone in. Totally drained, it doesn’t even have enough battery power to turn back on yet, so Charles pulls up Erik’s internet browser and checks his email through the university website instead. He fires off a couple emails to students asking simple, easy questions, and to those few who have sent him get-well-soon messages.

By the time he’s emailed Hank back thanking him for taking over his classes for the day on such short notice, Charles’ phone is charged enough to start chiming with alerts for messages. He has one text from Hank, assuring him his classes would be covered, and another message from an unknown number. Frowning, Charles taps the screen to open it.

[ _Call me back._ ]

When he checks his phone log, Charles discovers he has a missed call from the same number, but no voicemail.

“Interesting,” Charles says aloud to himself. He has a pretty good idea who’s called, but he hesitates before he hits the callback button. There’s a reason he’s been putting off certain...things. This definitely isn’t the time to be getting into them now, either.

With a small sigh, Charles hits send and resigns himself to opening a can of worms.

The dial tone rings three times before the call connects. “Charles?”

Despite himself, a full smile breaks out across Charles’ face. “Hello, Raven.”

“Charles, what the hell is going on in that city of yours,” Raven demands at once, “there are news reports all the way over here going on about mercenary helicopters blowing up the streets.”

“That’s a bit of an exaggeration,” Charles remarks fairly. “And where exactly is _here_ , then?”

“It’s not important,” Raven says smoothly, and Charles rolls his eyes. “Anyway, you’re safe, aren’t you? The attack wasn’t anywhere near you, was it?”

“Not even close,” Charles lies evenly, spinning himself around slowly in Erik’s chair. “It was on the other end of town from the university so I’m fine. I have to say, though,” he admonishes, and on the other end of the line he hears his sister heave an exaggerated sigh, “if it takes a city block getting shot up for my baby sister to call me for the first time in a year, then maybe I should arrange such events to happen more often.”

“ _Arrange such events_ ,” Raven parrots at him mockingly with a snort, “what are you, the Godfather? And phones work two ways, brother dearest, in case it’s slipped your mind.”

Charles laughs, and hopes it doesn’t sound too forced. Raven has no way of knowing, but she’s hit a little too close to home. “How am I supposed to be able to call you, it seems like you have a different number every other month.”

“How would you know, we only speak once a year,” Raven says at once. Charles hears her shifting around, like she’s making herself more comfortable wherever she is. “And well, you know me. My secondary mutation is accidentally losing or destroying phones. I can set up an email, though, if you’d like. Assuming you know how to work such modern technology.”

“I’m a professor, emails are my lifeblood,” Charles says dryly, and it wins him another snort.

“Fine, we’ll be digital pen pals,” Raven says, “it’ll be _groovy_.”

They lapse into a small silence, temporarily out of things to say to each other. Charles discovers he’s still smiling despite himself, even after Raven’s last jab. It’s good to hear his adoptive sister’s voice. He and Raven were close as children, especially given the household they’d grown up in, but they’d grown apart once Charles had escaped off to college and Raven had shown no inclination to follow in his footsteps like he’d hoped. They’d exchanged a few nasty words he knows he regrets and is sure Raven feels the same, but ever since they’ve maintained a carefully crafted distance.

“So, what’s new with you, anyway?” Raven asks at last. “Any new boyfriends I should know about? Please tell me you’re not still fucking that one guy who—”

“That was close to six years ago, I was still an _undergrad_ ,” Charles interrupts her, disgruntled because he knows immediately who she’s talking about, and she laughs. “Anyway, isn’t that supposed to be my line? Any new boyfriends or girlfriends I need to impress terror upon, as your older brother?”

“So there _is_ someone,” Raven says triumphantly.

“No there isn’t.”

“Don’t lie to me, Charles,” Raven snaps, and Charles blinks at how sharp her tone has gotten. She eases off immediately, as if she’s realized too. “You tried to redirect the subject,” she continues, light and teasing now, “and just because we don’t talk very often doesn’t mean I don’t remember how you are.”

“How I am,” Charles mutters, putting one foot down so his chair stops spinning. He faces the huge window of Erik’s office, looking out across an admittedly impressive view of the city below. “Alright,” he hedges slowly, “fine. Yes, there’s someone.”

“Who is it,” Raven asks immediately, “what’s his name? How long have you been together? What does he do, what company does he work for? Small or large? I bet he’s a corporate man. You’ve always had a boner for the CEO-types. It’s the suits, isn’t it.”

“Would you like his social security number too?” Charles asks dryly.

“I’ll figure that out on my own,” Raven says absently, and Charles hears the clatter of her fingers across a keyboard. “Name?”

“Are you going to _background check_ my boyfriend?” Charles demands. The word sounds funny in his mouth, somehow not quite matching up with Erik in Charles’ head. Erik, his boyfriend. It’ll do for the purpose of surviving Raven’s interrogation, at least. “Were you kidding about the social security number? Because last I checked, that’s illegal. Are you some kind of double-oh agent?”

“Don’t worry, Charles, I’m not going to get thrown in jail,” Raven says dismissively. “I’m not even in the US right now anyway. And I can’t be a double-oh agent, I’m a US citizen. I never got the dual-citizenship like you.”

“CIA, then. And your number is local.”

“It’s a reroute,” Raven says cheerfully, “and no, I don’t work for the government, what do you take me for? Anyway, are you going to tell me about your boyfriend or shall I book a flight and come investigate myself?”

“Jesus,” Charles says reflexively, dragging a hand down the side of his face wearily. This is exactly why he’d put off telling her even though he’s been seeing Erik for years now. “So that’s what it’ll take for you to visit me, then?” he asks lightly.

“Don’t change the subject.”

Charles sighs. “His name is Erik. He...owns his own company and is very successful.”

“Erik,” Raven repeats thoughtfully. “No last name? No company name?”

“You’ll have to come meet him yourself if you want to know more,” Charles says firmly, even though it’s the last thing he wants. It’s not that he’s ashamed of Erik, not in the slightest, it’s just...complicated. Hard to explain to outsiders for multiple reasons, beyond just the subject of Erik’s occupation; it’s a huge liability for both of them once people outside of Erik’s organization know they’re together. He’s moved in with Erik and every last one of Erik’s employees know what he and Erik are to each other, but somehow their relationship still feels too private to share, even with his sister.

“Maybe I will,” Raven says haughtily, even though they both know she’s sworn to never return to New York state, let alone the city. “Tell me he at least treats you well.”

“Of course he does,” Charles replies at once, and Raven laughs, gentler this time.

“Good.”

“I’m still not sure where you get off on playing protective sister,” Charles mutters, “because it’s not like you’d ever plan on actually showing up after threatening to rip off his balls or something.”

“You’d be surprised of what I’m capable of,” Raven says airily, her fingers tapping across her keyboard again.

“What are _you_ up to, then?” Charles asks, hoping to steer her away from the topic of his personal life. “I’m not even sure I know what you do, if you’re not some kind of secret spy.”

“My own brother doesn’t even know what I do for a living,” Raven says mournfully.

“Oh shut up. It’s not like you’ve ever told me.”

“International banking,” Raven says promptly, all traces of sorrow gone.

Charles frowns. “You’re not some kind of burglar, are you?”

“God, Charles, you always expect the worst from me, don’t you?”

“No,” Charles says quickly, because the last thing he wants to do is suddenly start rehashing one of their old arguments. It honestly hadn’t been his intention this time, either. “I don’t care what you do, Raven. I don’t ask out of concern for image, or whatever it is you think I’m worried about, I only ask because I’d just like to know.”

“Then you’ll be pleased to know I have a cushy desk job,” Raven says stiffly, but she sounds vastly mollified. She pauses for a moment before cautiously adding, “You’ve changed. If we had this conversation two years ago you would’ve gone apoplectic at the idea of me being some kind of professional criminal—which I’m _not_ , but you still would’ve lost your mind.”

“Well, time changes us all,” Charles says vaguely, declining once again to mention he’s dating a professional criminal and any negative opinions on the profession would at this point make him highly hypocritical. “What do you do in international banking, then?”

“I manage some high-risk accounts,” Raven answers breezily, “which actually, I’m pretty sure some of these people really _are_ international criminals. Or just from the mob.”

“Oh?” Charles asks as casually as he can, trying to remember if Erik’s ever mentioned which banks he keeps offshore accounts with. It would be some kind of large, cosmic joke if Raven was somehow Erik’s accountant, after all this. “What makes you say that?”

“Just the type of bank we are,” Raven replies, slightly guarded, as if she’s waiting for Charles to make another sweeping judgement. “But I’m totally safe, so don’t get your panties in a twist.”

“It sounds like just the kind of excitement you always wanted,” Charles says honestly, “so I’m glad you’ve found something you enjoy.”

“Thanks,” Raven says, her voice a few degrees warmer. She pauses, hesitating, and then continues, “You should come visit me here sometime.” Her tone is careful, like she’s unsure if she really even wants to be making the offer. “I could arrange some time off and we could spend more than a few minutes on the phone once a year together.”

Charles smiles. “I’d like that,” he says honestly. “But you’d have to tell me where you are, first.”

“I’ll consider it,” Raven says, but judging by her voice she’s smiling too. There’s another slightly awkward pause, and Charles thinks he hears another phone ringing somewhere on her end. “Well, I’d better let you go. Your lunch break is probably almost over.”

“Right,” Charles says, glancing around Erik’s office, “yes. Thank you for calling to check up on me.”

“I’ll set up that email,” Raven says, businesslike, “and you’d better keep me updated, Mr. Emails-Are-My-Lifeblood. Because, listen, Charles…” She trails off, and Charles gets the impression she’s choosing her words carefully again. “Due to the nature of my...work, and clientele, I’ve heard a few things through...certain grapevines. New York’s headed towards a little shakeup—nothing you should have to directly worry about, but still. Be careful.”

“A shakeup?” Charles repeats, brow furrowing. “What on earth do you mean?”

“Like I said, nothing you should have to directly worry about,” Raven repeats casually, “so just stick to your normal routine and you’ll be fine. Email you soon, bye, Charles.”

Before Charles can get another word in edgewise Raven hangs up, and the line goes dead. For a second Charles considers calling her back but knowing Raven she’s probably already scrapped the number and calling it will get him to a pizza delivery place. That happened once before, a few years ago, and Charles remembers both he and the bored teenager on the other end of the line being less than amused. At least international banking seems like a semi-reasonable explanation for her odd secrecy, he supposes.

Their conversation has left him with plenty of things to mull over. At least he survived relatively unscathed from kind-of-sort-of telling Raven about Erik. Knowing only his first name and that he owns his own company shouldn’t be enough information for Raven to somehow connect him to Erik Lehnsherr, New York City mob boss. On second thought, though, Charles wonders why he _didn’t_ just tell Raven the whole truth, as she’d probably love the idea of her supposedly stuffy older brother dating a lawbreaker.

It’s safer this way, in the long run. It’s really none of Raven’s business either way, which really doesn’t explain why she’d been so keen to know. Raven is intimidating enough in her own right, but Charles highly doubts she’d be very effective on Erik, if that’s what she was really planning on doing out of some kind of misplaced conception of sisterly duties. Besides, Charles isn’t unhypocritical enough to not want his sister being mixed up with any kind of mafia organization, even if only by extension through himself—bad enough that she’s all but admitted working for a bank used by the mob. Of course, she’d probably kill him if he ever actually told her this, but what Raven doesn’t know Charles is content to allow her to continue not knowing.

A shakeup in the city, however...Charles tries to imagine what she could mean and isn’t able to come up with much. He already would’ve known about the exploding helicopter even if he hadn’t been directly involved. If she’s in international banking, maybe whatever firm she works for has caught wind of a few ups and downs in certain stocks, and she was talking more about Wall Street than the city as a whole.

It would explain why she hadn’t told him more, it’s probably confidential information. Like she said, Charles shouldn’t have to worry, it’s not like he’s made any recent risky investments lately—aside from his love life, and Charles nearly laughs to himself at the comparison.

He spends an idle few minutes clicking around through news articles on Erik’s computer before his eyes start to droop, the words blurring together on the screen in front of him. He considers going to find where Rosie is, but with each passing second a nap is sounding better and better. Rosie will keep.

Charles pushes himself away from Erik’s desk, standing and moving over to the long leather couch Erik keeps along one wall. It’s not the most comfortable couch in the world, chosen more for imposing looks and functionality—he and Erik have gotten up to illicit activities more than once on this couch—than comfort, but Charles thinks he could sleep anywhere at this point as long as he’s able to get horizontal.

Stretching out across the cushions with a sigh, Charles drops off to sleep in between one breath and the next.

 


	3. Chapter 3

 

Erik pushes the door to his office open several paces before he reaches the threshold, walking quickly enough so everyone knows to get out of his way. The strategy meeting with all his top people hadn’t been very satisfying, and Erik’s brimming with restlessness. There’s still no word on who attacked them, and spending another hour raking his employees across the coals with his displeasure in the lack of information isn’t going to change anything. He’s annoyed, hungry, and wants to see Charles.

The lack of Charles sitting at his desk makes him draw up short, but then Erik catches sight of him on the couch, curled on his side and fast asleep. Erik shuts the door quietly behind himself and stalks across his office to the couch, hovering over Charles and watching him breathe in and out slowly for a few moments. Still here, safe and unharmed.

He shifts forward, putting one knee down on the couch cushion near Charles’ and swinging his other leg over him, straddling him without touching him just yet. Putting a hand on the armrest just above Charles’ head to brace himself, Erik leans down over him and strokes his shoulder lightly.

_Charles_ , he thinks, as quietly as he can, and feels Charles’ telepathy flicker in recognition.

Charles cracks his eyes open, twisting onto his back and smiling sleepily up at Erik. _You don’t look very happy,_ he observes, largely unconcerned to wake up to a grumpy mob boss looming over him.

There used to be a time Erik would impress upon Charles how lax he shouldn’t be, but now he just leans down for a kiss. Some of his annoyance at the situation has dulled at the mere sight of Charles, lessening to a low-level fizzle in the back of his mind, which should be cause for concern about how lax _Erik_ shouldn’t be. But Charles kisses him back, reaching up to fist one lazy hand in Erik’s tie in order to pull him down closer, and all thoughts of how they should or should not be fly right out of Erik’s head.

When they break apart Erik leans back, pulling Charles up with him. Charles is still sleepy enough to allow himself to be manhandled as Erik pleases, so Erik rearranges them both until he’s sitting up straight and normal on the couch, both feet planted on the floor, with Charles sitting sideways in his lap, folded neatly into Erik’s arms with his legs sprawled out limply on the next couch cushion over.

“How’d the meeting go?” Charles asks around a yawn, settling himself in.

“Frustratingly lacking,” Erik admits, and Charles makes a small sound of commiseration. “We’re still waiting for word on who’s responsible, and in the meantime we’re starting to build up our resources for a counterattack when it becomes necessary.”

“You’re not going to go shooting up entire street blocks,” Charles says, waking up a little more, but Erik shakes his head.

“No. We’re much more subtle than that, but no less devastating for the target involved.”

“Very intimidating,” Charles tells him dutifully.

Erik rolls his eyes. “How’re the ribs?”

“A little less sore now,” Charles says. “Logan gave me a couple more painkillers to take, but I think I’ll hang onto them for now. They make me drowsy, obviously.”

“You’re probably still wiped out from last night too,” Erik allows, because it’s been a constant reminder for him how last night was the last kind of thing he ever wanted to get Charles involved in. “Our informant in the police tells us we probably won’t be getting a visit till this afternoon, so we have time for lunch if you’re hungry. Or you can catch some more sleep.”

Charles stretches his arms high above his head, body going taut and long against Erik. “Mm, lunch sounds good.”

Gently Erik slides out from beneath him and stands, offering him a hand up. “Let’s order in.”

Charles nods, and Erik can see they’re thinking the same thing: neither of them wants to be exposed in a public place for long after what happened yesterday. “Pizza then?” Charles suggests. “We can order for the office.”

Before Charles, Erik never bought meals for his subordinates, even on the best of days. Ever since Charles, however, they’ve been getting free meals at least twice a week, courtesy of Charles’ carelessly generous heart, and Erik would complain more if he didn’t think it was a small price to pay to please Charles.

“For the office,” he agrees, and calls Alex to put in the order.

As they wait for food, Erik settles behind his desk and pokes around on his computer, while Charles curls back up on the couch with a book from the bookcase that hides the wall safe. Erik used to only have encyclopedias and random technical manuals stored there, as the bookcase was always more for show than anything else, but these days Charles amuses himself by replacing Erik’s selections with things like _Twilight_ and Harlequin novels that never fail to make Angel snicker whenever she catches sight of them.

A small knock on the door heralds Rosie’s arrival, escorted in by Angel who winks at Erik before shutting the door on her way out. Charles abandons his book and sinks down to the floor to greet Rosie as she bounds across the room towards him, wiggling all over with glee as she licks Charles’ face happily.

“Hello Rosie, there’s a good girl,” Charles says, scratching her belly when she flops down and rolls over expectantly, “we’ve missed you, haven’t we, Erik?”

“Our sorrow can end at last,” Erik says dryly, and at the sound of his voice Rosie is off like a rocket, flipping back up to her feet and barreling around the side of Erik’s desk to greet him too. Still knelt down, Charles grins at him as Erik allows Rosie to lick his hand, giving her side a solid pat. He _is_ glad to see her. “You’re a good dog, Rosie. Go see Charles again, go on.”

“Come here, Rosie,” Charles calls her back over, digging out a rope toy from beneath the couch, and Rosie goes, engaging in a fierce tug-o-war game with Charles that Erik shouldn’t find nearly as distracting as he does.

Lunch, once it arrives, is a quiet affair. The stack of boxes is spread out in the breakroom a couple floors down, so Charles accompanies Erik down to pile slices onto a couple paper plates and snag a water bottle before they retreat back up to Erik’s office. They eat side-by-side on Erik’s couch, shoulders pressed together, but neither of them says much; Charles inhales his pizza, evidently starving, while Erik chews moodily as he broods, the question of who attacked them and why turning over and over in his head.

Rosie sits attentively in front of them, very quiet and very still, as if she thinks one of them will slip her a piece of pizza if she’s good. Charles finally takes pity on her and fetches a rawhide chew from one of Erik’s drawers, holding it out to her. She snatches it from his hand, taking it all the way across the room to gnaw on, tail wagging as she sinks down on the rug.

“As territorial as you are,” Charles points out as he comes back over to the couch, sounding amused. He picks up his water bottle and takes a long drink.

Erik snorts, and shoves an entire piece of crust into his mouth to avoid answering.

“Lie down, Erik,” Charles commands after he’s drained the water bottle, wiping his hands off with a paper napkin.

“I need to go through some files,” Erik answers, glancing over at his computer, but Charles’ expression doesn’t leave much room for argument.

“Come here.”

Erik sighs, figuring he might as well humor Charles for ten minutes, swiveling where he sits and stretching out lengthwise on the couch, settling his head in Charles’ lap. Charles sinks his fingers into Erik’s hair and even Erik is surprised when he makes a sound that’s borderline erotic.

“You have a headache,” Charles says with a small laugh, dragging his fingers gently across Erik’s scalp, “let me help with that.”

“Don’t stop,” Erik says, eyes drifting closed as Charles begins to add to the effect with his telepathy, smoothing out the headache that’s been creeping up on Erik since mid-morning, starting in the back of his neck and spreading upwards. As a telepath Charles is an expert at managing headaches so Erik is more than happy to relinquish control to him, nearly starting to drift off beneath Charles’ ministrations, comfortable and full.

“My sister called,” Charles says eventually, breaking the silence. The sounds of Rosie ripping up her rawhide don’t count; Erik’s long since relegated anything of that variety as background noise to be tuned out completely.

“...Raven, right?” Erik hazards after casting about quickly for her name. He’s aware Charles has a sister—a half-sister, if he remembers correctly—but knows Charles doesn’t mention her often. Normally Erik would’ve looked into relatives himself for security reasons, but with Charles it’s different. Erik hasn’t pried, letting Charles tell him things at his own pace, and so he has only a loosely constructed idea of Charles’ family in his head.

“Raven,” Charles confirms with a small nod. “I guess she saw what happened on the news last night where she lives and wanted to make sure I was alright.”

“And?” Erik asks cautiously. “Does she know about…” He lets the question hang, unsure how to casually phrase _does she know you’re fucking a mob boss_.

“No,” Charles says, a tad dry, “I’ve only ever told her your first name and that you own your own company.”

“That’s one way of putting it,” Erik says with a short laugh.

“Obviously I don’t care what you do, seeing as how I sometimes work for you,” Charles says, a little too casually, “it just seems...neater, not to tell her the full details. Less messy. It’s not as if she and I are very close anyway.”

“Whatever you’re comfortable with,” Erik says neutrally. Charles informing his sister how close he is to Erik would make Raven a massive liability, but Erik isn’t about to get into the middle of Charles’ family politics. He’ll just have to deal with any problems as they arise. “That was...kind of her to call.”

“She lives somewhere in Europe, I think,” Charles says, “so I was surprised she’d heard anything at all.”

“Well, we _are_ in New York City,” Erik reasons, “it’s not like we’re in some backcountry little town.”

“I suppose.”

Erik lifts an arm up, wrapping it around Charles’ waist by squeezing it behind him, in between Charles’ back and the backrest of the couch. “Well, now she knows you’re safe, and you know I’ll continue to keep you safe.”

“She probably wouldn’t agree if she knew who you are,” Charles teases, running his fingers through Erik’s hair. “Though actually, she’d probably be thrilled to discover I’m seeing a mob boss. She’s always thought I’m rather boring.”

“Maybe she just extrapolates from the professor gig,” Erik suggests, a little mystified how anyone could find Charles boring. Charles is the most fascinating person he’s ever met, and he’s met a few characters in his line of work.

_You just say that so I’ll keep sleeping with you_ , Charles says lightly, but underneath is a soft glow of fondness.

Fortunately Erik is saved from having to give an embarrassing answer by the phone on his desk ringing, shattering the quiet of the office. “Duty calls,” he says, and Charles obligingly untangles his fingers from Erik’s hair so Erik can sit up. Before he gets all the way up, however, Erik leans over for a brief kiss, pressing his thanks for wiping the headache away into Charles’ mind. Reluctantly he pulls away, and crosses over to his desk.

A glance at the caller ID on the receiver tells Erik it’s the front desk. “Lehnsherr.”

“Good afternoon, Mr. Lehnsherr,” Angel says, perfectly polite and sounding every inch the secretary she’s not. He’d sent her down to man the desk until the police showed up, so it must mean they’ve arrived. “I have an Officer Muñoz here to see you from the precinct.”

Wise of them to send Muñoz down, Erik thinks wryly, as he’s just about the only cop Erik has ever been on genuinely—or as genuinely as he can be with an officer of the law—friendly terms with. It helps too that Muñoz is a rare mutant cop, which adds a few points in his favor.

“He doesn’t have an appointment,” Erik says anyway as Charles gathers up their paper plates and napkins to toss in the trash.

“He says it’s very urgent,” Angel says, and he can tell she’s grinning. “I can have Alex escort him up if you’d like.”

Across the office, Charles gives a low laugh, and Erik isn’t able to resist giving a brief smirk either. Everyone knows Alex has a very large crush Officer Muñoz, to the point where he’s embarrassingly obvious despite his vehement denials. It’s an unfortunate development, seeing as how Alex is someone Muñoz is duty-bound to arrest were he to catch Alex at the wrong place and time, and Erik hadn’t been too pleased when he’d first discovered one of his protégés mooning after a cop. It’d been Charles, of course, who’d talked him down from doing anything drastic about it, and in time Erik has begun to view it as amusing too rather than potentially detrimental to his entire syndicate.

“Tell Summers to take his time,” Erik drawls, and Angel is still laughing when he hangs up. “You going to stay, or clear out of here?”

Charles considers for a moment. “I suppose I’ll go,” he decides, “might as well not give Armando the chance to potentially recognize me and start asking questions.”

“It’s not _that_ small of a world,” Erik says, but doesn’t push. Charles gets edgy, sometimes, about the logistics of remaining anonymous.

“Actually, it is,” Charles says with a small smile. “Armando takes night classes on scholarship at the university, I looked him up once. He could very well at least know my name from the department website, and if he happens to go on _Rate My Professor_ …”

“Alright, clear out,” Erik says, quashing his tiny spark of annoyance at the mention of that stupid website as he ushers Charles to the door. He’d searched for Charles there once and it’d rankled him to see a flaming chili pepper next to Charles’ picture and hundreds of reviews talking about how hot their genetics professor is, and wondering if he’s open to dating ex-students. As if they stood a chance.

“Good luck, darling,” Charles says, sounding amused, lifting himself up on his toes to press a small kiss against the corner of Erik’s mouth. “Would you like me to take Rosie?”

Erik glances at their dog, still happily chewing away. “She can stay. It’s stereotypical of a mob boss to have a random dog around, isn’t it?” It’s too bad, though, he reflects, he should’ve taught her to growl menacingly at anyone in a police uniform. As it stands Rosie will probably just eagerly lick Muñoz’s face off.

“You are not training our dog to growl at people,” Charles says firmly, but his lips twitch. “Call me when you’re finished.” After another brief kiss Charles slips out the door, shutting it lightly behind himself, and for a few moments Erik follows the metal band around Charles’ wrist down the hallway towards the service stairs with his powers.

Returning to his desk, Erik settles himself in his chair, frowning when his foot nudges Charles’ bulletproof vest discarded on the ground. He kicks it further underneath his desk so it’ll be out of sight and pulls up a few accounting spreadsheets for the club, on the off chance Muñoz tries to take a glimpse at his computer screens. All the finances for the club are completely above-the-table, so there’ll be nothing suspicious to flag.

Erik sits back to wait for the knock on his door, ready to receive one of New York City’s finest.

 

*

 

Charles takes the stairs all the way down, eager for the opportunity to move around a bit after napping all morning and following up with pizza. Each step makes his ribs ache a little but it’s nothing too bad, only slightly out of breath once he reaches the ground floor. He pushes through the double doors and steps into a brightly-lit, marble-floored hallway, following it out into the main lobby of Erik’s building.

“Hi Charles,” Angel greets him, still stationed at the front desk. She’s the only other person present in the elegant lobby, playing Minesweeper on the computer.

“On a scale of one to ten, how angry do you think Erik would be if I nipped down to Starbucks for a chai latte?” Charles asks her casually, leaning against the tall desk.

“Depends,” Angel answers, eyes sparkling with mischief, “are you wearing the vest, and what’s in it for me?”

“I’m not, actually,” Charles admits, “I left it upstairs. And a venti-sized whatever you’d like, of course.”

“Tempting,” Angel says, losing her game of Minesweeper and immediately starting a new one, “but Erik would probably have my head if I let you go. Especially without the vest.”

Charles laughs, shaking his head. They both know Angel wouldn’t actually try to stop him if he truly wanted to go; nothing but Charles’ own desire to stick close to Erik and allow him to be an overprotective caveman for the day is keeping him obediently in place. “Do you think we’d be attacked in broad daylight?”

“It’s hard to tell,” Angel says after a pause, closing her game and leaning back in her chair. “Attacking in the middle of the day is a stupid death wish, since there are bound to be hundreds of witnesses wherever you are, and not to mention the cops would be all over you in a second. But on the other hand, these _are_ people who stole a helicopter and shot up a city block with a machine gun, so. They might be crazy enough to have a sniper set up or something.”

“The helicopter was stolen?”

“Yeah, it was on the news earlier. Some oil tycoon finally came forward and reported his private helicopter had disappeared. They’ve matched it to the one from last night. It was definitely stolen,” Angel adds, correctly interpreting the look on Charles’ face, “the guy has no ties to the mob. We have a couple people looking into it beyond what the police have determined just to be sure, but I doubt he’s lying.”

“I see,” Charles says, moving his gaze to the glass doors of the building. Armando’s patrol car is parked by the curb, and traffic trickles past in waves, yellow taxis always the leaders of the pack. On the sidewalk pedestrians pass by, carrying shopping bags or briefcases, heads tucked down in true New Yorker fashion, ignoring the world around them.

No wonder Erik hadn’t been pleased after his meeting; a stolen helicopter is just a dead end. Had it been smuggled into the city by the attackers, it would’ve offered a potential lead to track.

A tall, hulking figure breaks away from the flow of the crowd and makes his way up the steps towards the glass front doors of the building, shouldering his way into the lobby. Compared to their surroundings, he seems wildly out of place: his trenchcoat is tattered and filthy, and his unwashed hair is greasy and limp. His heavy boots echo loudly off the marble floor as he walks towards the front desk, and Charles straightens slowly, while behind the desk Angel stands up.

The stranger comes to a stop in front of them, taking his time looking them both up and down one at a time, grinning with yellowed teeth. “Lehnsherr sure keeps nice stock around.”

“Who the fuck are you,” Angel spits, and Charles tenses, readying his telepathy, suddenly aware of how exposed he is standing outside of the desk alone.

“Easy, sweetheart, I’m just a messenger.” The man lifts one dinner-plate sized hand to reach into his coat, and a split second later Angel is clicking the safety off the handgun she’s pulled out from beneath the desk and Charles has frozen him in place.

“Can he still hear me?” Angel asks calmly, her hand steady as she aims the gun at the man’s chest.

“Yes,” Charles answers. Touching the man’s mind is revolting, like stepping into something wet and slimy, but Charles clamps down resolutely, ignoring the barrage of filthy images the man pelts at him in an attempt to shake Charles off. “His name is Victor Creed, and he’s a mercenary currently employed by Barboza.”

_Barboza?_ Angel thinks, but gives nothing away on her face. “Alright, asshole, deliver your message. Try anything and the Professor will turn your brain inside out.”

Charles lifts his hold on Creed and Creed merely grins again, unshaken by the experience. “The Professor, huh?” he asks silkily, sliding his hand the rest of the way into his coat to pull out a wrinkled manila envelope. “They call me the Sabretooth.” Exaggeratedly slow, he pushes the envelope onto the desk with his abnormally long, thick fingernails.

“And I’m calling you dead if you’re not gone from here in the next ten seconds,” Angel says flatly. “If Barboza’s expecting a reply, we’ll be in touch.”

“Be seeing you again soon, then, sweetheart,” Creed says, and with one last lecherous wink at Charles he turns around without an apparent care for the gun aimed at his back and walks out the way he came in.

“Scumbag,” Angel hisses once the glass doors have swung shut again. She clicks the safety back on and stows the gun out of sight, glaring after him even once he’s gone from view. “Thanks for the assist, Charles, sorry you had to even see the dude.”

“Not at all,” Charles says, looking at the envelope still sitting on the desk. “Do you think Barboza’s responsible for the attack?”

“No,” Angel replies, though she doesn’t sound entirely sure. “Maybe he just found out we interrogated one of his men.”

Charles thinks that’s even less likely—they’d grabbed the man when he was alone, and Charles had wiped his memory himself—but he doesn’t say so, still studying the envelope with a strong sense of trepidation. Even if it is somehow completely unconnected to the events last night, it’s only going to add more to Erik’s plate.

As if Erik were a telepath, just thinking his name seems to summon him, his mind reaching for Charles’ through their open connection with the ease of long practice. _Alex is taking Muñoz back down,_ he sends, _come back to my office._

_I’ll be right there,_ Charles answers, while aloud he says, “I can take that up to Erik if you’d like. I’m being called.” He taps his temple.

“Sure,” Angel says, handing it over. “Just do me a favor and don’t mention how close I let Creed get to you.”

“I was perfectly capable of handling it, as you witnessed,” Charles points out, but Angel merely gives him a look.

“Like that will ever fly with Erik.”

Resisting the urge to roll his eyes, Charles heads back towards the hallway leading to the stairwell. “Alex and Officer Muñoz are on their way down,” he says over his shoulder, and Angel gives him a small salute in acknowledgement.

Going up the stairs takes a little longer than going down them, but Charles persists to about halfway up before he ducks out onto a random floor to hop back on the elevator to ride the rest of the way up to the top floor. The door to Erik’s office is open so he breezes in to find Erik sitting behind his desk, staring at his computer screen in a manner suggesting he’s actually staring at nothing at all. Erik wears brooding well, his profile well-suited to looking deeply contemplative, but Charles hates to read all the stress coming off of Erik.

“That didn’t take long,” he remarks, shutting the door behind himself and walking around the side of the desk. He stops briefly to give Rosie a pat on the head, but she barely looks up from her rawhide.

“The police know they have no way of linking me to what happened last night even if I _was_ responsible,” Erik answers, tearing his gaze away from his computer and rolling his chair back far enough for Charles to have enough room to perch on the edge of the desk in front of him. “They just have to look like they’re doing something so they come investigate us all anyway.”

“This came for you down at the front desk,” Charles says, holding the envelope out since Erik is already eyeing it, “dropped off via mercenary from Barboza.”

Erik accepts the envelope wordlessly, tearing open the top and sliding out the single sheet of expensive letterhead stationery, eyes skimming down the page. He puts his free hand on Charles’ thigh, absently smoothing it up and down. “He wants to set up a face-to-face meeting tonight.”

“Do you think he had anything to do with the attack?”

Erik frowns. “It’s too much of a coincidence. I don’t think he orchestrated it—it takes a certain kind of recklessness to fly a chopper into the middle of Manhattan and tear up a city block, and Barboza’s not the type. But he might have been connected to it in some way, or maybe he knows something he wants to share.”

A new player in Manhattan would be bad business for everyone. It could pitch the entire underworld of the city into chaos, disrupting the already tenuous territory agreements and ceasefires, tearing apart any tentative allies and setting them against each other. The NYPD might not even be able to contain such a potentially large outbreak of street violence, and the Feds could become involved.

“You said this was dropped off by a mercenary?” Erik asks sharply, breaking Charles from his thoughts.

“Yes, here.” Charles sends the memory to him, watching Erik’s eyes glaze over as it replays. A moment later Charles hisses in pain as the metal band around his wrist constricts without warning, going from snug against his skin to two sizes too small, and he jumps when Erik’s desk lamp caves in on itself with a loud crunch, causing Rosie to look up with a loud bark. “ _Ah_ , Erik, what the _hell_ —”

“Creed,” Erik snarls, all the metal fixtures in the room rattling ominously, “he _dared_ to set foot here in my—”

“Erik, control yourself,” Charles snaps, reinforcing his words with a sharp telepathic jab, “you’re hurting me.”

The band breaks in two at once, falling off Charles’ wrist in pieces. Erik’s on his feet in a second, pressed up against the edge of the desk between Charles’ legs and taking Charles’ arm, rubbing gently at the angry red mark left behind with careful, callused fingers. “Sorry,” he says stiffly, the sentiment stilted and nearly awkward. All the metal in the room has fallen still again. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright,” Charles says, trying to keep most of the bite out of his voice from the pain. It _had_ hurt, but now that it’s over he’s able to determine his anger was more out of surprise and pain than fear. Charles lifts his free hand and places it lightly on Erik’s forearm. Rosie has come over, nosing at Erik’s leg. “The mark’s already fading, it probably won’t even bruise.”

“I shouldn’t have lost control,” Erik mutters, watching his fingers rub the circulation back into Charles’ arm rather than meeting Charles’ gaze. _What if you were still wearing the vest,_ he thinks, the thought loud enough for Charles to overhear.

“Then I probably would’ve shut you down the hard way,” Charles answers calmly. “I’m _fine_ , Erik. I know you didn’t mean to.” Reaching down to scratch Rosie behind the ears, he hooks his ankles loosely around the backs of Erik’s knees to hold him in place. “Who is Victor Creed?”

“He ran with Shaw,” Erik says from between his teeth, and it’s all the answer Charles needs.

“If Creed is back, could Shaw be behind this?”

“No,” Erik decides after a small pause. “It’s not Shaw’s style to hide. He’d be front and center to rub our faces in it.”

“Okay,” Charles says, accepting Erik’s assessment. If Erik doesn’t think it’s Shaw, then it’s not Shaw.

Erik doesn’t say anything for a few moments, still stroking Charles’ arm. The stinging pain is all but gone now, but Charles lets him work through his remorse and self-disgust, because if there’s one thing he’s learned as a telepath after getting together with Erik, it’s how to finally know when to keep his mouth shut. He still doesn’t get it right all the time, but he’s not as prone to putting his foot in his mouth as he used to be.

“You’re okay,” Erik says eventually, slowly letting go of him. It’s not quite a question, but Erik is far more tentative than he usually is.

“You can put the band back on now,” Charles says, and smiles when Erik looks up at him quickly. “I trust you.”

_And I trust you_ , Erik thinks wearily, as if he is confessing a deep, momentous secret and the act has sapped him entirely. His entire mind is lax and open to Charles, and Charles can’t help but bask in it, immersing himself in Erik’s steel-trap mind, all sharp edges and careful calculation that nevertheless feels like home.

He’s still there when Erik calls the pieces of the band from the floor to his hand, watching in delight as Erik’s mind lights up with the use of his powers. Erik reforms the metal back into a smooth, continuous band around Charles’ wrist with no clasp; only Erik or very-carefully applied wire cutters would be able to remove it. Charles feels Erik run his powers over the band almost reverently, memorizing the feel of the metal and the warmth of it against Charles’ skin, and then they both carefully withdraw, Erik letting go of the band and Charles pulling back from Erik’s mind.

“It won’t happen again,” Erik says, a note of finality in his voice.

“I know.”

Erik nods once, and carefully untangles himself from Charles’ legs to sit down in his chair again, petting Rosie’s head slowly when she rests her chin on his knee. “If Barboza’s hiring people like Creed, he must be accelerating his expansion plans,” he says, switching topics seamlessly. “Last night’s attack might have made him bolder, and he might believe we’ve been weakened enough for him to try to take a piece out of us himself.”

Charles still isn’t fully convinced Barboza can be discounted as the one behind the attack itself, but he’s far too pleased about Erik’s use of ‘us’ and ‘we’ to argue. At least Erik still isn’t trying to send him away out of some kind of noble protectiveness. “What time does he want to meet?”

“Eight pm tonight,” Erik answers, glancing at his computer, “so we have a little over six hours.”

“Did he say where?”

“There’s an address.” _Troublesome,_ Erik’s thinking. It’s in neutral territory, but Barboza still chose the place—could be dangerous. Could be a trap. “I don’t like it,” he continues. “He’ll have the advantage.”

“Well,” Charles says, leaning down to pull open the huge drawer he knows Erik keeps carefully folded blueprints of most of the city’s usual neutral meeting points, “we’ve got six hours to plan our way to a _better_ advantage.”

 

*

 

By the time 7:00 rolls around Erik is sorely tempted to take up the one thing he explicitly, flat-out promised Charles he would quit doing with no intentions of secretly going back on his word, even if the need arose: lighting up a cigarette and smoking it down to the filter. But the need has arisen, and Erik thinks he’s just about reached the point where it’s have a smoke or shoot someone in the head.

_Light up and you’re not so much as kissing me for a week_ , Charles says pleasantly when he catches Erik eyeing a couple of his men taking a quick smoke break while everyone else loads up the four SUVs down in the parking garage for Erik’s building they’ll be taking to the meetup.

_So you want me to resort to murder, then_ , Erik snaps back irritably, narrowing his eyes at the telepath standing calmly beside him. All zipped up in his vest beneath his crisp suit, with a new gun clipped onto his belt, Charles is once again indiscernible from the rest of Erik’s security, which is exactly how Erik prefers it.

Unfortunately, Charles doesn’t subscribe to the main reaction the glare usually provokes: he doesn’t look the least bit nervous or afraid. _Save it for Barboza_ , he suggests, and sends Erik the faint impression of a placating kiss to his jaw. They don’t dare show physical affection in case Barboza already has eyes on them, but Charles’ telepathy has always come in handy for more than just reading minds.

Erik’s in no mood to humor him, however, and he trusts Charles to read far enough into it to not take it personally. Still no one has come forward to take credit for last night’s attack, he’s had to have two different news channels booted from his building after they came snooping around with hopes of catching a scoop after seeing Muñoz’s patrol car parked out front, and now he has to deal with Barboza, whose mental capacities are as thick as his waistline. Erik’s temper is currently shorter than a fuse on a stick of dynamite.

Despite Charles’ careful attempts to sound reasonable, Erik refuses to believe Barboza is the one behind the attack. Requesting a secret meeting in neutral ground one night after blowing up an entire city block doesn’t match up. Erik also doesn’t believe the attack could be a one-time thing, which Charles had also suggested at one point though he didn’t even sound very convinced of it himself. Someone went through a lot of trouble to steal a private helicopter and smuggle heavy artillery into the city to take a shot at Erik, which is too much work and planning for it to be a single, failed attempt.

Silently, Charles sends him a small wave of reassurance, which Erik finds comforting despite himself. As way of apology for being snappish, he clumsily sends back the sensation of holding Charles’ hand. It’s worth it for the quick smile it earns him.

“Team Two is all set, sir,” Clarice walks up to inform him smoothly. “It’ll take us two minutes to get into position once we arrive.”

“Team One is go,” Bishop adds, joining their little cluster. He carries what always reminds Erik of a blaster from some kind of space-themed movie in both hands, the barrel as wide as his head. “If Barboza tries to pull any shit, he won’t last long.”

“Don’t tempt me to finish him off anyway,” Erik says grimly, and Bishop laughs while Clarice gives a razor-sharp smile. A power vacuum cropping up now is the last thing Erik needs, however, on top of everything else. “Alright, let’s move out. I’d like to be the first one there.”

The ride across town to the neutral ground takes close to an hour, and Erik feels like he might start to ache from the tense way he holds himself throughout, constantly on alert for another truck to come barreling out of a side street or another helicopter to come swooping down from the rapidly darkening sky—who’s to say there won’t be a second attack tonight?

Despite her best puppy-dog eyes, Rosie has been left behind, but Charles is squashed in the middle between Erik and Bishop. He keeps up an idle chat with the latter during the ride, asking Bishop about his mutation and how it works in tandem with his giant weapon, and down low where no one can see he holds Erik’s hand, physically this time, smoothing his thumb back and forth across the back of Erik’s knuckles soothingly. Erik can feel Charles in his head as well, curled up as a bubble of warmth in the back of his mind so as not to intrude, projecting a low-level sense of calm affection and staving off another headache trying to reform in Erik’s temples.

Arriving ahead of the appointed time gives Erik and his people plenty of time to move into position, Clarice—Blink, now that they’re out conducting business—using her portals to move her team into various positions surrounding the abandoned parking garage and on different levels from where the meeting will be taking place on the third level, smack in the middle. Blink herself joins Erik and Team One, on standby orders to grab Charles if things go south: it’s not as efficient as Azazel would be, as he’d be able to teleport Charles miles away in a second, but Blink can at least shove Charles through a portal and get him down to the street level.

Team One is smaller and comprised of Bishop and most of the rest of Erik’s people who have strong, offensive-type mutations; Angel links arms with Charles, the two of them putting their heads close together to have a quick, murmured exchange that makes Charles laugh, while Sunspot, Riptide, Warpath, and Aurora fan out under Bishop’s direction. Erik would’ve liked to have Alex along too, but Alex is off spending time with his brother and Erik didn’t need Charles staring at him pointedly to have no desire to go back on his promised word.

The parking garage had been silent and dark upon their arrival, but it hadn’t taken Erik long to search out the rusting circuit breaker and flip the switch, turning on the yellowed and flickering florescent lights, or at least those that weren’t cracked and broken. A fine layer of gritty, sand-like dust covers the ground, and pieces of broken glass, old rebar, and other bits of trash are scattered around at random, adding to the desolated look and feel of the place.

“Charles, by me,” Erik says when he senses a large clump of SUVs round the corner up the street, drawing steadily closer.

Charles and Angel separate, each taking up position on either side of Erik. Angel cracks her knuckles absently, unfurling her gossamer wings from her back, and Erik feels the small rush of telepathy he associates with Charles forming a link between everyone’s minds for communication-only purposes. As per Erik’s orders, he’s only linked everyone in Team One up; they’d decided adding everyone from Team Two as well would be distracting.

_Thank you_ , Erik thinks to Charles directly, a private aside no one but Charles will hear as everyone else tests out the link. He means it for more than just establishing the connection.

_Everything will go fine_ , Charles assures him, and beneath the words he gently twines a sense of understanding through Erik’s mind. _We have backup plans for our backup plan. This won’t be like Guerrero again._

“Alright,” Erik says calmly out loud as the screech of tires echoes up from down below, signalling that Barboza’s caravan has entered the parking garage. From what Erik can tell, two of Barboza’s SUVs remain idling down at the street-level entrance to the garage while three more begin the winding drive up to the third level. Erik reaches over and puts his hand on Charles’ shoulder briefly, before letting his hand fall back to his side. He will not allow Charles to be hurt again. “Let’s see what this asshole wants.”

Eventually the SUVs come into view, pulling to a stop twenty yards away from Erik’s group. Erik reaches out and runs his power over them, over the men inside. They’re outfitted with semi-automatic weapons, which is never a good sign, but a lot of people bring extra firepower to meet with Erik; his being a mutant makes them nervous, which prompts them to bulk up on security. Stupid of them really, giving Erik extra metal to play around with, but humans do lots of stupid things to make themselves feel better. As Barboza’s men begin to climb out of the SUVs, Erik double-checks that he can feel every single bullet in every single one of their guns. All metal, nothing out of the ordinary. Still, he doesn’t allow himself to relax, not even incrementally.

Joseph Barboza has always reminded Erik of a bulldog: he’s stout, thick and muscular, as if at one point in his life he used to be some kind of prize fighter, though lately thanks to good windfall and lazy overindulgence most of his muscle has been replaced by fat. His eyes are heavily lidded, cheeks quivering like jowls as he walks forward with his men to square off against Erik’s group, gaze flickering lightning-quick across each face of Erik’s men. Barboza waves an absent hand and his men come to a halt, Victor Creed among them, and then he strides forward an extra two steps alone, offering out a hand to shake, thick fingers encrusted with several heavy, brightly-glinting rings.

“Erik Lehnsherr,” Barboza says as Erik shakes his hand briefly, “one hears so many things about you these days. Thank you for agreeing to come.”

“Do they,” Erik says neutrally. _Charles?_

_I can get a full read on all of his men,_ Charles reports calmly. _Creed is vile, by the way. But Barboza himself feels muffled. He must have invested in some blockers._

They’d expected as much, but it doesn’t make Erik any happier to have guessed right. Keeping tabs on Barboza’s goons will have to be enough.

Barboza doesn’t step back into the fold of his men, staying right within the bubble of Erik’s personal space, even daring to put both his hands on Erik’s shoulders. “Indeed. For example, a little birdie tells me you have a telepath on your payroll.”

Erik doesn’t allow himself to tense, keeping his body at ease. As much as he’d like to shrug out of Barboza’s hold, he knows better than to back down now. “I have plenty of mutants on my payroll,” he says smoothly, “as I head the only fully-mutant syndicate in the city.”

Barboza smiles. One of his teeth is gold. “Telepaths are hardly a dime a dozen.”

“Whether or not I have a telepath on my payroll is irrelevant to you,” Erik says bluntly. _Charles, does he know about the job two nights ago?_

_I can’t tell,_ Charles answers, frustrated, though his expression remains smooth and impassive. _Even his men don’t know why we’re all here, they’re all lower-level members._

“Ah, but that is where you are mistaken,” Barboza says with another smile. Erik is tempted to tighten the rings on his fingers and squeeze them off one by one. “I believe you and I are in a unique position, Erik.”

“I believe I can agree, seeing as you’re still touching me.”

Barboza throws back his head and laughs, the sound echoing through the parking garage and into the dark night. Erik’s expression doesn’t change as Barboza finally releases him and steps back a pace or two. “You are exactly as they say, so severe and serious. But perhaps I could learn from you, and that sense of humor you have lurking underneath.”

“You have fifteen seconds to explain why we’re here,” Erik answers, inflectionless, “or I’ll happily forsake the terms of neutral ground and put a bullet in your head and be done.”

_Erik_ , Charles warns sharply as all of Barboza’s men cock their guns in a series of clicks. _We didn’t come here to antagonize him._

Erik ignores him, watching Barboza and waiting, powers at the ready. If anyone fires a gun, the bullet will go straight towards the other boss.

“I come in good faith,” Barboza says calmly, spreading his arms wide with another grin. At the gesture, his men stand down, though they don’t seem happy about it. “Surely you can feel the bullets we carry. That’s my olive branch to you—our weapons are all but useless in the face of your...mutation.”

“Ten seconds,” Erik says, unmoved.

“I know who attacked you last night.”

Erik stops his mental countdown. “And I’m supposed to believe you.”

Barboza gestures back to his men. “Have your telepath read their minds. I have nothing to hide.”

_It was Guerrero_ , Charles says without Erik having to ask, sounding stunned. _It’s him. Creed watched Guerrero show up to meet with Barboza this morning._

“Guerrero,” Barboza says, correctly interpreting whatever expression is flickering across Erik’s face, “and I come to you now to strike a deal.”

“The enemy of my enemy is my friend, I take it,” Erik says icily, every muscle in his body rigid with tension. He’d dismissed the possibility of Guerrero almost immediately, on the account of the fact that Guerrero hasn’t been seen in the city ever since the night he shot Charles. Erik’s sources have failed him entirely, especially the ones he had set on searching for any traces of Guerrero, if they haven’t picked up on the scum slithering back into New York. “Talk fast.”

“You will need convincing, of course,” Barboza says, and distantly Erik is grimly pleased to hear a definite note of urgency in the other syndicate head’s voice that had been lacking before, “and you understand, as well, that I can’t, ah, put all my eggs in one basket right away. You need to be able to trust me, but I need to be able to trust you.”

“And how do you propose we establish trust,” Erik says. The parking garage creaks around them, metal rebar skeleton inside the layers concrete flexing ominously.

Barboza notices, and his men shift behind him uneasily. “Guerrero came to me this morning in hopes of recruiting me to his cause. He's gunning for you, Erik, and he won't stop until you and yours are wiped out completely.”

"Hardly a mystery, considering last night," Erik says, dangerously calm. "I don't need you to tell me things I already know.”

"But what you don't know are his plans, his numbers," Barboza replies quickly, "and I can give those to you. He thinks I'm willing to work with him, he'll tell me everything.”

"What I fail to see," Erik says flatly, "is _your_ angle. You want to play double-agent for me, but I fail to see how this benefits you. And you'll forgive me," he adds coldly, "if I refuse to believe a reason like charity.”

"You worry this is a ploy for Guerrero instead, to get you to trust me and then I betray you to him," Barboza says with a nod. “An understandable concern. The truth is…I'm choosing to play a dangerous game, Erik Lehnsherr," he says bluntly, "you know how the business goes. Guerrero came to me this morning and outlined some of his future plans for his syndicate, and not all of them are…beneficial to my interests. You and I are also at odds, but compared to Guerrero, you and I are the lesser evils to each other.

"At the same time…" Barboza smiles, slightly less pleasant than his earlier grins. "If you won't agree to a truce in order to take care of Guerrero together, I can always step back and allow Guerrero to finish you off. It would greatly inconvenience me, of course, and I would prefer to work with you instead.”

"You seem confident Guerrero would be able to take me out."

"I'll offer you another tidbit of information, free of charge," Barboza says. "Guerrero has an outside sponsor."

_Shit_ , Bishop thinks loudly enough to carry across the telepathic link.

Erik is inclined to agree. A sponsor based outside of the city could be based anywhere—Canada, Venezuela, Cambodia, or even Antarctica for all Erik could know. But having a second family based in another city willing to fund your cause is an upper hand over everyone else who may be confined solely to New York City: Erik's resources will run out or be cut off if it comes down to a long, drawn-out fight, while Guerrero will have new shipments of bullets, weapons, fresh men, whatever he needs arriving in daily. He'll outlast Erik, like an army siege outside a castle wall.

It at least explains why Barboza is hesitant about shacking up with Guerrero. There's no telling what the outside sponsor's endgame is, and if they're just using Guerrero as a springboard into bigger enterprises. Unless Guerrero has something like blood ties to whatever outside syndicate he's made a deal with, he's a fool for buying into them. He's just going to end up getting fucked, but by that point Erik won't be around to experience the satisfaction of watching it happen.

"I still have no way to determine what you're saying is true," Erik says at last, "since you've conveniently blocked my telepath from your mind."

"A precaution," Barboza says lightly, "in case this meeting did not go favorably. You can hardly begrudge me."

"It still leaves us at an impasse."

"Luckily I have a solution," Barboza replies, business-like. "I will give you 24 hours to decide. If I don't hear back from you by 8 o’clock tomorrow evening, I will assume you have refused my terms and our negotiations are finished."

"Your terms," Erik repeats flatly.

"My reasons for approaching you are vastly altruistic," Barboza says with another wide smile, "but everything comes with a price."

_Does he know what altruism actually means_ , Charles says, mental voice strained.

"If you agree, I will funnel all the information I know about Guerrero and his movements directly to you," Barboza says, "and in exchange, you will loan me your telepath."

 


	4. Chapter 4

 

Alex gets back late enough for the building to already be locked up by the automatic timer system, but he has a keycard for the side entrance off of the main street. He puts his thumb on the pad and swipes his card, pushing his way in through the door once the little light turns green, and then climbs up a flight of stairs to where he can catch an elevator.

He hadn’t gotten any urgent calls or texts as the night wore on, so he can only assume the meeting with Barboza went well. Alex feels apprehensive anyway as he rides up to the top floor of the building in silence, arms folded tightly. With all the shit going down lately it’s hard to believe a random request for a meeting from another mafia don can mean anything good.

The hallway is silent and the lights are dimmed down low when Alex steps out of the elevator with a soft ding, but Alex can see the light is on in Erik’s office from beneath the door crack. Before he can steel himself and knock, the door to the lounge room opens.

“Pst, Alex,” Angel hisses, gesturing him over, “come in here.”

Warily, Alex goes, and Angel pulls him into the lounge and shuts the door quickly—though without slamming it, the door merely giving a soft click. A quick glance around the room reveals they’re alone, save for Rosie, who bounds over enthusiastically to greet Alex. “What’s going on?” Alex demands, bending down to pet her. “How did the meeting go?”

“Not good,” Angel says grimly, leading him over to the cushy leather couches. She collapses down onto one, kicking her feet up on the coffee table. “No one’s hurt,” she adds quickly, seeing Alex’s face, “it actually went really smoothly. But we’re so fucked.”

“Tell me everything,” Alex says, sinking down onto the couch opposite from her and trying not to clench his fists. Bored by the lack of attention, Rosie sinks down to lie at his feet.

Angel gives him a fast play-by-play, walking him through the meeting. Alex listens without interrupting, the brash urge to interject without thinking quashed out of him by Erik years ago now, even when Angel reveals how Barboza claims _Guerrero_ is the one behind the helicopter attack last night. It’s physically impossible for him not to say something, however, once Angel gets to Barboza’s point.

“ _What_?”

“He wants to borrow Charles,” Angel repeats, and if this is some kind of joke she isn’t amused.

“You sure no one was hurt?” Alex asks, blowing out a long stream of breath and flopping back against the couch cushion weakly. “Erik didn’t blow a fucking gasket?”

“Surprisingly, no,” Angel says, shaking her head. “But he did get all still and quiet, you know, when you can just tell he’s about an inch away from ripping out someone’s entrails because of how pissed he is.” She laughs weakly. “I think Charles did some veeery quick talking up here—” she taps her temple meaningfully, “—to stop Erik from starting a war right there.”

Alex can imagine it; he’s very familiar with the many temperaments of Erik Lehnsherr. “Why does Barboza want to _borrow_ Charles?”

“He wouldn’t say,” Angel says gloomily, “he said he’d give more details only if Erik agreed to his terms.”

“What the fuck,” Alex says, which pretty much sums up how he feels. “Who the _fuck_ does he think he is, asking to borrow a telepath like mutants are a bunch of tools to pick and choose from?”

“Okay _Erik_ ,” Angel says, faintly amused, but then she grows somber again. “I agree though. Barboza is a spineless piece of shit.”

“He obviously came to us because he’s shitting his pants about whatever he claims Guerrero is planning,” Alex continues angrily, “so he should count himself lucky if Erik decides to temporarily partner up with him. But then he fucking asks to borrow Charles? Is he _stupid_?”

“Yes,” Angel says flatly, “although to be fair, he just asked to borrow a telepath. He doesn’t know who Charles is or that he’s also Erik’s main squeeze, thank god.”

“Still,” Alex says, grinding his teeth, “what kind of bullshit is he trying to pull?”

“It gets worse,” Angel says. “Charles wants to go through with it.”

“Charles doesn’t know what the hell he’s doing,” Alex snaps, but Angel’s shaking her head again.

“No, he doesn’t,” she agrees, “but we’re pretty much up shit creek right now if Guerrero really does have an outside sponsor backing his campaign to wipe us out. Teaming up with Barboza is pretty much our best option at this point, and that’s his price: one telepath on loan. Our hands are kind of tied.”

“How is Erik taking this?” Alex asks dubiously. “He’s never been big on sharing in the first place, and this is _Charles_ we’re talking about.” Come to think of it, it _is_ pretty amazing Erik _hadn’t_ eviscerated Barboza on the spot.

“Our esteemed boss is positively livid,” Angel says, glancing at the door as if expecting Erik to come barging in on a rampage at any second. “We pretty much split from the parking garage after that and came back here. I didn’t ride in their car, but once we got back Erik and Charles went straight into Erik’s office and slammed the door shut. At one point there was some shouting—from both of them, I could make out Charles’ voice too—but I left to take Rosie out. That’s how I know Charles wants to volunteer himself for slaughter, though, because why else would they be arguing?”

“It’s pretty quiet now,” Alex ventures to say after a pause, “did Charles leave?”

“No, they’re both still in there,” Angel says dismissively. “Like Erik would let Charles out of his sight at this point. They’re probably fucking the tail end of the argument out of each other.”

Alex makes a face, because as much as he likes Charles he doesn’t want to imagine Charles and his boss screwing. “Shit. You realize this is going to happen, right? Charles is going to get his way whether Erik actually likes it or not.”

“Yeah,” Angel says, looking vaguely uncomfortable. “Erik will cave since he pretty much doesn’t have a choice. But it feels wrong, you know? Like I almost want to say Charles doesn’t owe us anything, or something, because he’s technically not even an actual member of the family? Even though he really basically _is_? You know what I mean? He’s just an associate, but he’s...Charles. One of us.”

“Yeah,” Alex agrees, troubled, “but it’s not like we can tell Barboza that. Under any other _normal_ circumstances, a telepath would be highly ranked in the family based on usefulness of powers alone. Plus we can’t clue Barboza in to how important Charles is to Erik, aside from the telepathy.” Alex doesn’t even want to think how nasty things would get if Barboza figured out Erik is also regularly fucking his telepath. For god’s sake, Erik and Charles _live_ together, and if that ever gets out to the wrong people there might as well be a large target drawn on the back of Charles’ head.

“That’s probably why Charles is just straight up volunteering to do it,” Angel says with a sigh. “The guy’s a genius, and you don’t have to be one in order to put two and two together here. Barboza knows we’ve got a telepath. He wants to borrow one, and Charles is the only one we have. It’s got to be him, and he’s got to do it or otherwise we won’t get Barboza’s support, and Guerrero will start taking us apart.”

“This is shitty,” Alex growls. He suddenly wishes they were down in the basement level, where he’d at least be able to burn off some steam in the powers-proofed gym. “What the fuck could Barboza need a telepath for? Did he even mention how long he’d need Charles for?”

“No,” Angel says, “he didn’t want to specify without Erik first agreeing. He wants a telepath bad, though, he opened the damn meeting by bringing it up right away.”

“I honestly can’t see Erik agreeing to this,” Alex admits frankly, despite what he’d said originally. Even if it wasn’t Charles at stake, Alex can’t fathom Erik willingly lending out any of their people to other syndicates. As it _is_ Charles, who is without a doubt the one thing Erik cares most about aside from the family itself, Alex can only picture Erik shoving Charles into some kind of high tower and setting six dragons to guard it rather than allow anyone else to touch him, let alone use him for his telepathy.

“Charles will get him to agree,” Angel says, though she doesn’t sound happy about it.

“Yeah,” Alex says. Said tower and dragons would probably last two seconds against Charles, since Alex has never met anyone more stubborn in his entire life, and he’s well-acquainted with Erik, not to mention himself. “And where does Guerrero fit in with all of this? We pretty much ran that asshole out of town after last time.”

“We won’t know that until Erik agrees to start working with Barboza,” Angel says, “right now we still wouldn’t even have a clue Guerrero’s back in town, let alone the one who attacked us yesterday if it weren’t for Barboza. All our channels are as silent as the grave.” She shakes her head in disgust. “I’ve never seen anything like this.”

“We’re sure this isn’t some kind of ploy, right?” Alex asks, but without much conviction. “Barboza isn’t already in league with Guerrero?”

“We’re sure, about that at least,” Angel confirms. “I was talking about it with Bishop and Blink while they were still here. If Barboza was already working with Guerrero, he would’ve at least recognized Charles at the meeting. Guerrero would’ve almost certainly told him what Charles looks like, but at the meeting Barboza wasn’t even sure if our telepath was a dude or a lady.”

“Don’t start underestimating him,” Alex warns, but he’s not very convinced either. “It could be an act. But honestly if Barboza is planning to double-cross us, it’s probably because he thinks he can use this as an opportunity to betray both Guerrero _and_ Erik, and have us all finish each other off or something.”

“Probably.” Angel picks at an invisible piece of lint on her leggings. “I’m just pissed, you know? We’re effectively backed into a corner no matter which way we turn, and it happened virtually overnight. Why didn’t we see this _coming_?”

“I’ll bet you anything heads are going to roll,” Alex says quietly, an edge to his voice.

“Oh, for sure,” Angel says, “Erik’s going to be monstrous enough for having to lend Charles out, but once he actually focuses his aggression down to actual productivity…”

Alex nods. He’s seen Erik in action before, and this is going to be even less pretty, what with Charles’ wellbeing on the line. There are going to be a few consequences for the way this entire string of events cropped up without so much as a hint of a warning, and Alex is ready to bet his entire salary it’ll be the kind of consequences Charles isn’t allowed to hear about. “There will have to be. He can’t _not_ set an example. This is bullshit.”

“Mhm,” Angel hums in agreement.

They sit together in grim silence for a few moments, contemplating. Alex can’t bring himself to regret skipping out for a little time with Scott, but he does wish he’d been at the meeting in person. Down at his feet, Rosie lets out a quiet sigh, resting her chin on her paws.

“How does Barboza know we even have a telepath?” Alex asks at length. “It’s not like we’ve spread that around as common knowledge.”

“He’s hired some asshole named Victor Creed,” Angel answers, narrowing her eyes. “He was the one who came by the building earlier this afternoon, to drop off the request for the meeting. Charles and I were at the front desk when he came in, and Charles ended up having to use his telepathy on him.” She recounts the entire scenario, her voice growing slightly hoarse by the end.

“But if Creed knows what Charles looks like, why didn’t he tell Barboza?” Alex wonders, frowning. “You said Barboza had no idea Charles was our telepath.”

Angel shrugs. “Who knows. Creed looks like a nasty piece of work, and it’s not like he’s actually part of Barboza’s family anyway. He’s a mercenary. He’s probably playing some kind of game on his own. We’ll have to mention that to Erik, though, it’s a good point.”

They stew in silence for a few more minutes, chewing on the intel. At least it’s something, Alex figures. At least now they have a name and a few leads to scour, which is more than what they’d had before the meeting. Still, he has an uneasy feeling about all of this. First an attack on Erik, then a request for Charles. What if this is some elaborate ploy to strip Erik of his defenses? Charles is definitely one of Erik’s greatest protections; he’s a mostly unknown element with enough power to blow the fucking roof off of people’s heads. What if Barboza is trying to leverage Charles away to leave Erik exposed? It’s a clever ploy, yeah, probably too clever for Barboza, but if someone’s puppeting Guerrero, who’s to say they’re not doing the same with Barboza?

He’s jolted out of his thoughts by the door of Erik’s office yanking open. Through the window on the door to the lounge, Alex sees Charles emerge first, his mouth tight. Erik comes out after him and shuts the door, briefcase in one hand, coat in the other. When he spots Alex and Angel through the window, he jerks his head in summons, and they climb to their feet and head out to greet him, Rosie leaping up after them eagerly.

“Go on,” Erik says to Charles. “I’ll meet you at the elevator.”

Charles directs a clearly suspicious look at the three of them, but evidently he’s too tired to argue further because he leaves, wrapping his fingers around Rosie’s collar to take her with him. Not that a little distance is much good against him; Alex figures if Charles wanted to eavesdrop, he’d have no problem peeking into any of their minds.

“We’re going to the safe house in Queens,” Erik says once he’s out of earshot, arms crossed. He has a deep furrow between his brows, and his scowl looks permanently fixed. Alex doubts any of the lines on his face are going away until after this whole clusterfuck has blown over, and maybe not even then. “I want both of you to follow us and stay the night.”

“Stay the night?” Angel raises her eyebrows. “Boss, you that worried?”

Erik shrugs restlessly. “I don’t know,” he says through gritted teeth, and that makes Alex perk up and listen because there’s a lot of shit Erik hates admitting and _I don’t know_ is one of them. “The things Barboza said gave me a bad feeling. He won’t try anything until the deadline for my reply is over, but still, better safe than sorry.” His gaze drifts down the hall to the elevators, where Charles is standing waiting with Rosie. “I’m not taking any chances.”

“We’re with you, Erik,” Angel says after a small pause of silence, and Alex nods.

“Let’s go,” Erik says, gesturing them forward, but he meets each of their gazes once in acknowledgement and silent thanks.

Charles pushes the elevator button as they approach and the door slide open smoothly, all five of them crowding in. Alex takes up one side of the box with Angel, leaving room for Erik to slip in beside Charles while Rosie sits down obediently at their feet for the ride. Alex studies them both without trying to be obvious about it as the doors slide closed again and the elevator begins to descend. They’re standing slightly apart, tense postures leading Alex to believe they’re far from done arguing, but he also can’t help but notice both of them look a little too rumpled for having just been sitting in Erik’s office for a couple hours. Angel was probably right, then.

“How was Scott, Alex?” Charles asks him, breaking the heavy silence.

“Oh, he was good,” Alex says, hoping Charles isn’t cluing in to his thoughts. “Scott was one of the kids who had a couple lines to recite, the rest were all just in the, uh, singing ensemble. He was the only one who didn’t mess them up.” He can feel the corners of his mouth quirking up despite himself, amused and fond of his serious little brother.

Charles cracks a grin too. “What was the play about?”

“I really don’t know,” Alex confesses. He’d sat in the very back of the auditorium, but he’d made sure to get up and snap a couple pictures of Scott with his phone, so he digs it out to show Charles and Angel, who looks interested too. “Some of the kids were bunnies, some were fish, and some were birds. There was a lot of singing involved.”

“Aww, look how cute he is,” Angel says when Alex pulls up the slightly grainy pic of Scott dressed in his tissue-paper-and-cardboard fish costume, meticulously speaking his lines into one of the mics up on the stage.

“I tried to tell him that too and he gave me this, like, incredibly withering look,” Alex says with a small laugh. “He’s only eight but I swear he’s actually eighty, with his mannerisms.” Scott would probably never admit it, but at the beginning of the play Alex had seen him scanning the crowd intently until he’d spotted where Alex was sitting. Alex had waved and Scott had actually grinned back, and Alex had been weirdly relieved to know Scott was so excited to see him there. “He’s a good kid.”

“Oh my god, text this one to me,” Angel says, taking Alex’s phone and scrolling through the pictures and coming to a stop on the one of Alex and Scott together. Scott’s teacher had taken it for him after the play, with Scott still in his ridiculous costume and Alex crouched down next to him with an arm around him. “I’ll get it printed out and frame it for you so you can put it on your desk.”

“Okay,” Alex says, a little surprised by how much he likes the idea. “I will, thanks.”

“You have identical smiles,” Charles says when Angel hands him the phone. “Did you still go for ice cream?”

“Yeah, his foster parents even let just the two of us go alone. It was nice.”

“Good,” Charles says, handing him back his phone as the elevator comes to a stop on the ground floor. “I’m glad you got to see him.”

“Me too,” Alex agrees as they all file out, “especially since those pics of him in the fish costume will make excellent blackmail when he’s in high school.”

Angel and Charles both laugh, and Alex swears he even hears Erik, who so far had been ignoring them all by scrolling through his own phone, give a small snort. Charles takes Rosie by the collar again, stroking her sleek head with his free hand as they all come to a stop just outside of the elevator.

“Well—” Erik begins, turning to address Alex and Angel.

“They might as well ride with us if they’re going to be joining us at the house,” Charles says dryly, all trace of good humor gone, expression unreadable.

Erik throws him a look, and Alex gets the feeling a telepathic conversation takes place, the silence growing slightly charged. Alex exchanges a glance with Angel, suddenly not so sure he wants to be stuck in a car with Erik and Charles while they’re still clearly on rocky ground.

“It’s okay, you guys go ahead,” Angel says smoothly, coming to the rescue, “Alex and I will go drive-thru for coffee somewhere and give you a chance to settle in, and then we’ll catch up.”

“Perfect,” Erik says, his tone curt enough to put an end to any kind of discussion, and so Charles is forced to nod and move off through the lobby towards the front doors, Rosie padding agreeably alongside him. Erik follows them, and Alex and Angel hang back as the three of them step out into the street where Janos already waits with the limo.

“You’re a lifesaver,” Alex says to Angel as soon as the glass doors have swung shut.

“I know,” Angel says primly, but she flashes him a brief grin. It doesn’t last long, fading as they watch the limo pull away from the curb. “I hope they make up by tomorrow, though. This is going to be hard enough without them giving each other the cold shoulder too.”

“Yeah,” Alex says, a little less certainly. He’s not exactly an expert on relationships, but Erik and Charles seem to thrive on sniping back and forth at each other on a good day. Alex can admit the stiff silence is a little disconcerting.

“They totally fucked in Erik’s office, though,” Angel adds, sounding smug.

“Ugh,” Alex says, starting for the doors, “I’m going for coffee.”

 

*

 

When Charles wakes he finds himself alone, curled in the center of the wide bed with the duvet tucked in carefully around him. Casting his telepathy out sleepily beyond the borders of his own mind, he finds Erik out in the kitchen of the tidy little brownstone, but pulls back before Erik can sense his presence.

Charles rolls over onto his back and stretches, spreading his limbs out luxuriously on the soft mattress and staring up at the ceiling. It’s late, well past the start time of his first morning class, but last night he’d sent out a brief email to Hank to tell him he’d be out for another day. At this rate Charles is going to have to ask Logan to forge a sick note for him again.

Right now, however, his classes are the least of his worries for once. He and Erik hadn’t gone to bed angry with each other, exactly, but they hadn’t spoken much after leaving Erik’s office behind and heading to this next safe house for the night. Under any other circumstances, by this point it would be safe to assume their argument is over; Charles can still feel the lingering ache of rug burn from the fast round of sex they’d had, after their verbal argument devolved into the physical and the urgent, almost mindless need for _reaffirmation_ , after everything that’d happened in the past 24 hours.

But while Erik had come to bed last night, they’d slept with their backs to each other, and there’s a tall wall up in Erik's mind. It poses no challenge to Charles, of course, but it's a clear signal to stay out; Charles is not currently welcome.

The worst part is neither of them are wrong. Barboza's demand for a telepath is not one they can afford to ignore, given the circumstances, so Charles knows he's going to have to do this. He's willing, too, because if it comes down to keeping Erik and his people from being wiped out by Guerrero, it's really no choice at all.

At the same time, Charles can't fault Erik for his current steadfast refusal to cooperate with Barboza. He knows Erik would rather cut off his own arm than see Charles hurt, and going to work for Barboza is certain to be extremely dangerous: they have no idea what the other mafia don wants a telepath for, or if Barboza can even be fully trusted.

Charles feels a chill even the duvet can't protect him from. Barboza could demand he strip someone's mind completely for secrets. He could demand Charles kill someone. And if Charles is supposed to be working for him, Charles won't have the option of refusing. Barboza could kill him for the slightest infraction. Of course, Charles isn’t incapable of defending himself, but with the psionic blockers he’d sported during the meeting, Barboza poses a significant challenge.

He pushes back the covers, scooting over to the side of the bed and swinging his legs over the edge. It takes him a moment to regain enough coordination to stand, but once he does Charles totters across the bedroom and slips out the door, leaving the bedroom behind. The hallway is dark and Charles feels his way over to the stairs, making his way down to the first floor and stepping into the kitchen.

Just like the other safe house, the kitchen is noticeably bare but this time there's a small coffee machine plugged into the wall, gurgling quietly as a fresh pot brews. Erik is already dressed, leaned against the counter and nursing a cup of coffee while brooding like a champion.

"Hey," Charles says as soon as Erik's gaze jumps up to take him in. Rosie gets up from her position sprawled out in front of the cupboards and pads over to Charles to greet him, tail wagging, and Charles pets her attentively even while he studies Erik in turn. He doesn't need to be able to look fully into Erik's head to tell Erik's had another near-sleepless night. Sooner or later Erik's going to crash and burn at this rate.

"Hey," Erik answers carefully from behind the rim of his cup, voice smooth and inflectionless. He seems to be waiting for Charles to make the first move, not quite wary yet still expectant.

Charles weighs the merits of picking up their argument where they left off last night right now, first thing in the morning, and ends up giving a soft sigh. He straightens slowly and crosses the kitchen, eating up the rest of the distance left between them, and steps right up into Erik's space. Erik lowers his coffee cup down to the counter with a soft clink just in time for Charles to press up against his front, wrapping his arms around Erik and resting his chin on Erik's shoulder.

After a moment he feels Erik's arms drop down around him in return, all of the tension draining out of Erik's long, lean body at once. They must make an odd pair, Charles in his pajamas while Erik is dressed to the nines in one of his expensive suits, but they've always been a strange couple—the professional criminal and the professor. The mob boss and his associate.

"You know we have to do this," Charles says at last into the silence, making no motions to pull away. "There isn't another way."

"It isn't worth the cost of your life," Erik answers tersely, but he doesn't move to push Charles away either. One thing is always for certain: despite their temperaments practically being built to clash, they both hate fighting with each other.

"This is bigger than just me," Charles reminds him, "your entire syndicate is at stake."

"We don't know if Barboza is telling the truth about Guerrero."

"It's the best indication towards the truth we've got," Charles says, quietly firm. "We have no other leads. And if Guerrero _does_ want to wipe you out, he almost certainly will if you refuse help from Barboza. Guerrero has support from outside the city, he’s already got you beat as far as resources go. If you fall, who's to say Guerrero won't start targeting the other families? What's going to stop him from virtually taking over New York's underworld and having run of the whole city?"

“I don’t care about the whole city,” Erik says belligerently. _I care about you_.

The thought slips out through a tiny crack in the wall, and the corners of Charles’ mouth tug upwards in a smile. “I told you at the very start of this I would work for you at my own terms.” He slides one hand upwards slowly, tangling his fingers in Erik’s hair. “These are my terms now, Erik. I want to do this.”

Erik is silent for a long, loaded moment. Charles doesn’t push this time, having no desire to rehash the argument they’d had last night by trying to force Erik into making the call, but as Erik is carefully keeping him out of his head right now Charles has no idea what he’s thinking. He doesn’t pry, instead slowly running his fingers through Erik’s hair and letting him contemplate.

“I don’t like this,” Erik says at last, flat and direct. “My answer is still no. But it doesn’t matter what my answer is,” he continues before Charles can open his mouth, “because you’re right. We don’t have any other choice.”

“So I’ll do it,” Charles says slowly, “the operation is a go.”

“I don’t like this,” Erik repeats, “and don’t expect me to ever accept it or get enthusiastic about it.”

Charles absorbs that, carefully parsing out what he thinks Erik is trying to say. “I understand,” he answers, with another small smile. “I’m not going to be upset with you for being an asshole about it.”

“Good,” Erik says frankly. “Another thing. We’re going to play this exactly how I say. You’re going to do exactly _what_ I say, which I know goes directly against every instinct you possess, but I’m not kidding, Charles. This is out of your depth. If you can’t agree to that I _will_ jet you out to Colorado and hold you there.”

It rankles a bit, when the urge to protest wells up immediately; it only proves Erik right. Charles swallows it down, because it’s true: this is _way_ out of his depth, and he doesn’t have the kind of experience Erik does in this particular area. Charles is used to relying on both his telepathy and Erik’s affection for him to keep himself out of potentially nasty situations as far as any business with the mob goes, but this time he’ll be going beyond Erik’s sphere of direct influence and his telepathy is what’s being bargained for on the table. He’s going to need every last scrap of direction and advice Erik can give him.

He keeps his hold on Erik but pulls back slightly, so he’s looking up into Erik’s tired but flinty eyes. “You’re the boss,” he says seriously, meaning every word, “I’ll gladly defer to you.”

“Good,” Erik says again, though he sounds too relieved for it to come out as frank as before. “Thank you.”

“I have no intentions of getting myself killed,” Charles promises him gently, “I’m not going to be reckless for the sake of it. I know this isn’t a game.”

“It very much is a game,” Erik says grimly, “but it’s the high-stakes kind.” He leans forward and kisses Charles, rough and deep, the kind of kiss that always makes Charles gasp up into Erik’s mouth and leaves him breathless when Erik pulls away again. “Go take a shower and get dressed. Then we’ll go over the plan.”

“Already a plan, is there?” Charles asks with a smile once he catches his breath. He presses gently against the wall in Erik’s mind. _You know I won’t look if you ask. But when you’re ready, I miss your mind._

“Of course there is.” _I know. I just—can’t. Not right now._

Charles gives Erik a soft kiss, this one briefer and more chaste. It’s no surprise Erik wants the mental space right now, and Charles knows better than to take it personally. Erik is guarded enough with his emotions as it is, and right now Charles can already sense the tangled mess of them Erik is unintentionally projecting, even with his wall up. “I’ll be quick.”

“Take your time,” Erik answers, and they reluctantly let go of each other. For half a moment, Charles considers voicing his own brand of relief at how their argument hasn’t carried over from last night.

“Save me a cup,” he says instead, nodding at the coffee machine, “and make sure you take Rosie out again.” Then he forces himself back out of the kitchen and up the stairs.

His phone still sits on one of the bedside tables, quietly charging, so before he heads into the bathroom he swipes a finger across the screen to check his messages. No texts or calls, but he does have a few emails: one is from Hank, with more get-well-soon wishes that leave Charles feeling slightly guilty for continuing to lie to his dedicated TA, and another few are from the department listserv he can read later.

The last he nearly deletes without opening, from an address comprised of a long string of random numbers and letters, like spam that wasn’t sorted into his junk mail. His finger is already hovering above the Delete button when he reads the subject, and hits Open instead.

**[** _Subject: don’t delete this you old fart_

_it’s Raven, and no, I haven’t sent you a virus. as promised, here’s an email for you to keep in touch with me. I expect prompt updates on your life, chop chop. ;)_ **]**

Charles huffs out a laugh. She didn’t even sign her name at the bottom, treating it more like a text message than an email. Unplugging his phone from the charger, Charles takes it with him into the bathroom and types back a quick response.

**[** _Subject: RE: don’t delete this you old fart_

_You still know me too well, I almost DID delete this. Thank you for setting this up, and I expect updates on your life now too. I’m on my way to lecture now; the very exciting life and times of a professor._ **]**

The lie is easy to type, especially since there’s no way on the planet Charles ever intends to respond with a truer narrative on the life and times of a mob boss’ main squeeze. Still, he hesitates: what if something _does_ go wrong with Barboza? If the worst occurs, and Charles ends up dead, Raven’s going to want to know what happened.

Charles sinks down onto the closed lid of the toilet seat, closing his eyes for a moment. He can’t think about it like that. They haven’t even gone over Erik’s plan yet, and if Charles starts showing signs of nerves or fear now, Erik won’t hesitate to scrap the whole thing and Charles will end up sequestered in Colorado, out of the way and useless.

Erik will have contingencies, if only for the sake of being utterly thorough. Charles will just have to ask him to come up with some kind of story and explanation for Raven if in the event things do go south. Taking a breath, Charles opens his eyes and goes back to his message.

**[** _I have a full day of lectures today and dinner plans with the BF later tonight, so don’t feel I’m neglecting you if I don’t respond right away. I hope you have a good day (or night, wherever you are). Your utterly devoted brother, Charles._ **]**

The ending will make her snort, at the very least, which is good enough. Charles is just about to hit Send when he pauses again. No matter what kind of explanation Erik comes up with to tell Raven if something happens to Charles, Guerrero’s name is going to come up somehow. Raven is nothing if not persistent, and she’ll be able to drag some manner of the truth out of Erik. Charles wonders if Raven will be less angry with him if he mentions Guerrero in the email now, for her to remember later if things do go wrong. Maybe then she’ll wonder if Charles was trying to tell her beforehand.

It’s an extremely morbid thought, and Charles doesn’t want to think about it anymore. Instead he types out a quick postscript at the end of the message.

**[** _P.S. Exciting news! I just received an email from an Adrian Guerrero, and he’s interested in donating a LOT of money to the department!_ **]**

Without giving himself time to second-guess it, Charles hits Send and watches the little loading bar inch its way towards 100% as the message is sent off. Now Raven will have reason to recognize Guerrero’s name and not feel like she’s been left totally in the dark, if the worst happens.

Tossing his phone onto the sink counter, Charles stands up to start the shower before Erik comes looking for him. He already feels stupid for even bringing up Guerrero’s name with Raven and resolves to put the matter out of his mind, instead switching his focus to Barboza. He’s the more immediate threat, anyway.

When the water is warm enough, Charles slips under the spray, and tries not to think about how many ways things can go utterly wrong.

 

*

 

Rosie grows restless enough in the afternoon after spending an entire morning cooped up in Erik’s office that Erik finally decides to take her out. Charles clearly wants to go with them, but Erik must be broadcasting that he still wants space because Charles doesn’t get up from the couch as Erik grabs Rosie’s leash and clips it to her collar. “We’ll be back in an hour,” he says as he opens the door to his office and steps out into the hall. “Don’t go anywhere.”

“Be safe,” Charles replies, his tone faintly worried. But he says nothing else, only watches them leave.

Erik keeps his eyes closed for the entire elevator ride down to the ground floor, focusing on keeping his powers from tangling in the cables and ripping chunks out of the infrastructure out of the sheer need to blow off steam. Rosie must sense his mood because she sits quietly at his feet, leaned against his leg as if to offer him something to ground himself with.

“Good girl,” Erik murmurs when the elevator doors slide open, and Rosie wags her stubby tail as she jumps back up to her feet to lead the way out into the lobby. One of Erik’s lower-level peons is manning the front desk today, and Erik gives him a brief nod as he and Rosie pass. He reaches ahead to the stainless steel grips on the glass doors and pushes them open, allowing a rush of heat and noise from the busy street outside to wash into the building, Rosie falling back to heel at his side as they step out onto the busy sidewalk.

There’s a small park tucked in between two office buildings a couple blocks away and Erik’s feet move automatically to take him there, operating on autopilot even though a small part of him continues to monitor the swirling hustle and bustle of the city around them, cataloging their surroundings and watching for any potential threats. It would be embarrassing, after all, to be clipped right in front of his own building at the center of his territory. Despite his long strides, Rosie keeps pace with Erik with practiced ease, trotting alongside him with her ears perked up, never straying from his side. Their purposeful stride helps them cut through the masses, the crowd parting to get out of their way like minnows before a shark, so they arrive at the park in near record time.

The park is less crowded than the street and Rosie happily hops off the pavement, padding out into the grass. Erik finds a bench in the shade that is mercifully unoccupied and sits down, loosening his grip on Rosie’s leash so she has enough slack to sniff around and explore a little, her sleek black coat glinting in the sunlight. It’s hot outside, the air thick and muggy, settling in Erik’s lungs like a thick soup compared to the cold office air conditioning he’s been breathing all morning. Erik focuses on his breathing, waving away the man pushing a hot dog cart past the bench, and digs a hand into his pocket to fish out a small handful of spare change, floating the coins up into the air and setting them to orbit his hand, spinning around faster and faster.

They’ve spent the past five hours going over and over every possible scenario Charles could encounter while working for Barboza, and instead of reassuring Erik it’s only made him hate everything ten times more. He hasn’t felt this powerless since the days Shaw ran the streets. He’d sworn to himself he’d never have to experience the creeping doubt nearly edging into fear ever again, but he can feel it now, filling him up like cloying swamp water and threatening to pull him down to drown.

He hates that he feels this way, hates that he’s responsible for _allowing_ himself to be pulled into feeling this way: by allowing Guerrero to escape unchecked this long, by his lack of vigilance that allowed Guerrero to return with reinforcements, by allowing himself to get too close, too _attached_ to Charles, for giving himself such an exposed weakness for others to exploit. Because if something happens to Charles now, if the unthinkable occurs…

Erik will tear this city apart, building by building, floor by floor.

Even while getting Charles set up with as much intel on Barboza’s syndicate as possible Erik’s continued to rack his brain for any alternatives better than allowing Charles to walk straight into Barboza’s sticky hold, but there’s nothing. Erik’s never had a problem he couldn’t solve by shooting it or using his powers to rip it to pieces, but this time his hands are entirely tied. All he can do is sit back and allow Charles, who by all rights shouldn’t even be _involved_ in this, offer himself as collateral so Barboza will cooperate.

But you knew exactly what you were getting Charles into at the start of all this, Erik reminds himself grimly. You wanted Charles to be a part of your world. It was like a game, to lure a telepath into his fold, to have such a valuable resource readily available. Charles was nothing but a means to an end, at first, useful for eradicating Shaw from the city. Seducing Charles and getting into his pants was extra, a bonus level Erik pursued because he was used to getting what he wanted and there was nothing like the thrill of a chase—it helped, too, that Charles didn’t make it easy for him. Erik was playing a game and Charles was playing it right back, meeting Erik head-on as an equal.

It isn’t a game anymore. Business associates turned to mutually exclusive fuckbuddies because neither of them could stand the idea of sharing—who were they trying to kid, it was inevitable for their relationship to become an _actual_ relationship. Erik doesn’t regret it. It’s never been in his nature to regret, foraging ahead with the same steadfastness of a bullet. But this time, he feels frozen in place, rusted to a halt. Erik _does not want_ to go through with this deal.

Voicing this is impossible. It will only make Erik look weak, and weakness is the last thing Erik needs to project to his enemies and allies alike. The one solid upper hand he has in all this is no one outside of his own syndicate knows how much Charles personally means to him, but it also means Erik can’t bat more than a suspicious eye at lending Charles out. If Barboza even begins to suspect Charles is more than just another subordinate on Erik’s payroll, it will be a death sentence. If Charles gets killed, it will be Erik’s fault.

Abruptly Erik realizes all his coins have melded together and dropped down to the pavement in a melting heap, burning a hole through the sidewalk. Rosie is standing in front of him, and when he looks up at her she lays her head on his thigh and blinks up at him with her big brown eyes.

“Hello Rosie,” Erik says, unclenching the hand balled into a fist on the bench and lifting it to stroke her head. Rosie doesn’t move, looking up at him so solemnly as Erik continues to pet her that Erik finds himself smiling slightly. “You’re a good dog. I didn’t think I’d like having a dog, but luckily for us Charles is persistent.”

Rosie’s ears perk up at Charles’ name, but otherwise she remains carefully still. Erik wonders if this is her way of offering comfort and support, and even though it sounds ridiculous he can’t help but feel she’s trying to make him feel better. It’s amusing as it is endearing.

“Come on,” he says, scratching her behind the ears. Rosie steps back as Erik stands, but she continues to look up at him, waiting. “Let’s go back. Let’s go see Charles.”

At last Rosie wags her tail, as if she senses a change in Erik. She licks his hand, pink tongue lapping at Erik’s palm and normally Erik discourages any form of dog saliva on his person but just this once he decides not to tell her no. Strangely, Rosie _has_ helped him feel better, just a little, but Erik’s not sure he’d ever admit it. He does however feel less like a zombie during the walk back to the building through the oppressive heat of the afternoon, and it no longer seems as if the walls of the world are closing in on him.

When they arrive back up on the top floor and step into Erik’s office, Angel is sitting on the couch with Charles and quizzing him with pictures of Barboza’s known associates, while Bishop and Clarice bend over a street map with blue pens, scribbling out and comparing notes, and Alex paces back and forth in front of the wide window, snapping at someone on the phone about information exchange. Erik doesn’t say a word but all four of them break away from their positions as soon as they see him, trooping past him out into the hallway. Still on the phone, Alex absently pulls the door shut behind him and Erik is left alone in his office with Rosie and Charles, who has stood up and is watching Erik with those laser-bright eyes.

Without looking away from him Erik unclips Rosie’s leash from her collar with his powers, floating it over to a side table while Rosie happily darts forward to greet Charles. Charles pets her with a smile but then steps around the coffee table and walks straight up to Erik, taking him by the wrist and leading him back over to the couch.

“Charles, what—?” Erik can’t get out another word before Charles pushes him down to sit on the couch and then climbs on top of him, straddling Erik’s thighs and wrapping his arms around Erik’s back, crushing their chests together.

“I’m having a moment,” Charles announces calmly, as if he hasn’t just crawled into Erik’s lap, but there’s an underlying brittle quality to his tone Erik only recognizes because he feels the exact same way.

“Have several,” Erik offers, relieved for reasons he can’t articulate even to himself. He wraps an arm around Charles too to hold him in close, while his other hand slides up to stroke Charles’ hair slowly. Rosie has wandered away, sinking down onto the carpet in the middle of the room to gnaw on the rawhide someone gave her earlier.

“I don’t want to push,” Charles says after a few long moments, “but will you let me in?”

For a split second, Erik’s first reaction is to mentally recoil, though fortunately it doesn’t show in his body language. Half a second later comes guilt, so powerful Charles can probably sense it even with Erik’s mental wall in place between them. He’s kept Charles out of his head all day for the selfish reason of preventing Charles from seeing his fear, but in doing so he’s cut Charles off from his primary way of connection, as the bond he’s formed with Erik runs deeply between them both, leaving him hanging. It’s no better than depriving Charles from seeing him, or touching him.

_I’m sorry_ , Erik says silently, and reaches out with his mind how Charles taught him to draw him all the way in.

Charles slides into his head in a wash of warmth, honest relief flooding through them both as they slot back together with ease: it’s as if he never left. Erik hadn’t realized how empty his head had felt without Charles’ presence curled in the back of his mind, not intruding but giving each of them a constant, low-level awareness of the other, comforting on several different levels. Because Erik decided to go all-in with Charles long ago, he taps on that presence and shows Charles everything: the near-crippling doubt; his disgust, both with himself and the entire situation; his helpless fury; and even his fear, that something will go wrong, that he will lose Charles forever.

_I didn’t want you to see_ , Erik confesses while he closes his eyes and leans into the sensation of Charles gently rippling through his thoughts, _it’s not a lack of confidence in you._

_Oh, my darling_ , Charles answers, and Erik realizes the aching fondness in his chest doesn’t belong to him alone. _We’re not just associates anymore. We’re partners. Maybe you need to pretend to be unshakable for your employees, but you don’t have to for me._

_I don’t want to be anything other than unshakable_ , Erik replies wearily, but he puts a tiny sliver of chagrin into the words so Charles laughs, soft and warm. Erik isn’t sure who turns their head first but then they’re kissing, intertwined both physically and mentally, and for the first time in what feels like days Erik finds himself relaxing, content with his lapful of warm and affectionate Charles.

_I’m afraid too_ , Charles confesses quietly when their kiss has ended, resting his head on Erik’s shoulder and his face turned sideways into Erik’s neck. Their arms are still wrapped around each other tightly. _Like I said this morning. I know you don’t like this, but I don’t want you to think I like it any better. I do think, however, we have a good chance. You’ve been very thorough, Erik. We can do this._

Erik doesn’t answer—he can’t, not when he still feels too twisted and knotted up on the inside, but this time Charles is right there with him, and can read all of his mind, every layer of thought and feeling. Somehow it’s comforting, to know someone understands him completely.

Charles pulls back abruptly, looking at him with eyes that are overbright. “The next time I’m complaining about how I ever put up with you, remind me of this moment.”

“Willingly handing me ammunition to win, Charles,” Erik says, allowing a sharp grin to flash across his face, “are you feeling okay?”

“Shut up,” Charles says, but leans forward for another kiss.

They break apart again when Rosie suddenly hops up onto the couch to lick their faces, nosing her way into their bundle. Erik groans and Charles laughs, unwinding his arms from around Erik and leaning back to allow Rosie to burrow her way between them, so Erik is effectively crushed back against the couch, buried by dog and telepath. Rosie’s whole body is wriggling with delight, and Erik has to reach around her to catch Charles before he topples backwards, nearly knocked off the couch by Rosie’s enthusiasm.

“You’re really pushing it,” Erik tells her, but there’s no heat to his voice. He keeps one hand on Charles’ side but he places the other on Rosie’s back, petting her sleek coat.

Charles’ hand joins his, stroking along Rosie’s wiggling spine. “Aren’t we lucky Erik tolerates us, Rosie,” he says with a grin, laughing when she twists back to lick at his face again over her shoulder. “Good girl, good girl.”

Erik huffs, giving Rosie one last pat before gently pushing her away, so she steps out from in between them. Unperturbed, she hops down off the couch again and goes back to her bone, seemingly satisfied with herself. It leaves Charles room to slide sideways off of Erik’s lap, twisting around so he sits next to Erik on the couch instead, tucking himself right up against Erik’s side. Erik gets an arm around him, tugging him in as close as possible without pulling Charles into his lap again, and digs into his pocket with his free hand to pull out his phone.

_We’ll be ready_ , Charles says in Erik’s head as Erik hits speed dial and puts the cell up to his ear, and Erik gives him a small squeeze in acknowledgement.

“Angel,” Erik says when she picks up, “send Barboza an invite to the club.”

 


	5. Chapter 5

 

The aptly named Hellfire Club is located in Hell’s Kitchen, right across the street from the Hudson River. It’s an old acquisition, leftover from Shaw’s days in the city and Charles knows the only two reasons Erik hadn’t destroyed it is because as one of the most popular mutant nightclubs in the city it makes a ridiculous amount of money, and Erik taking over it also serves as a clear message to the entire underworld of the city that Erik is the one who holds court now after stamping Shaw out.

Erik has taken Charles several times before, and Charles is quietly relieved to be holding this next meeting on what counts as familiar ground, right in Manhattan rather than somewhere in another parking garage or rusting warehouse. Clubs have never really been his scene; definitely not in high school and he can remember only going out to a few only a small handful of times during his freshmen year of undergrad, mostly because he was never a fan of being pressed in tightly together physically with upwards of three hundred hot, sweaty bodies and mentally with at least half as many drunk or high minds. The constant, overwhelming barrage on all levels of his senses just isn’t worth it.

There’s definitely something to be said, however, about going to a club on the arm of the person who owns it. For one, he always arrives in a limo, pulled directly up to the curb outside the front doors, and is immediately escorted right past the long, waiting line and bouncers. Charles has also grown very familiar with the VIP section of the club, situated on the second floor with huge one-way glass windows looking down at the dance floor and massive bar area below. It’s quieter up here, and definitely not as crowded, with a second bar area and lots of private alcoves housing booths as big as couches.

Though they have home field advantage and Erik’s men have nearly every room covered, Charles knows it would be a mistake to let that lull him into a false sense of security. Things could go very badly very quickly, and he can’t let himself be caught off guard if anything happens. So he’s already scanning for disturbances when they step out of the limo, and as a consequence, he has a headache before they even reach the VIP section.

“All right?” Erik murmurs as he guides Charles into the room, hand on the small of his back.

“Everyone downstairs has had too much to drink,” Charles replies ruefully, rubbing his temples. “Also, a fight is going to break out at any moment down by the left side of the bar.”

“You aren’t going to stop them?”

“I’d rather save my energy in case…”

There’s no need to put his apprehension of this meeting to words. Erik squeezes his arm, then steps aside to speak to one of the nearby attendants, who vanishes downstairs. A moment later, another attendant slips through the door and whispers something in his ear. It’s impossible to hear what she’s saying over the pounding music of the club and the din of the crowd, so Charles taps into Erik’s mind to share his ears.

“…a convoy headed this way,” she’s saying. “We’ll have the back doors open when he gets here.”

Erik nods. “The back door. Make sure.” No sense in interrupting business, he’s thinking. Half the work of a mob boss is keeping up appearances, no matter how nervous or on edge he might be.

The attendant nods and leaves, letting the door fall closed behind her. Charles brushes briefly over the minds outside in the hall: Blink and Angel are discussing a possible gap in security and Alex is thinking about how good a whiskey sounds right now, even though he kind of hates whiskey. The rest of Erik’s men are strategically posted along the stairwell, in front of the elevator, and throughout the club. Most of them are disguised to blend in, but Charles can pick them out by the sharp, sober focus of their minds in the sea of drunkenness. They’re all on high-alert, watching the shifting crowds with a diligence Erik would be proud of. Even if they don’t know exactly what’s going on, they all sense the gravity of the situation.

“So?” Erik asks, standing by the window that looks down on the dance floor. “Everything quiet?”

“So far.” Charles casts his mind out further in search of Barboza and his men heading their way, but the growing headache thwarts his efforts. He could push past it, but he’d rather continue to conserve his strength.

After a moment, he moves over to stand next to Erik and wraps an arm around Erik’s waist. Erik is rigid and tense beneath his hand, every muscle clenched with anticipation. When Charles shifts his hand up to rub at a knot between Erik’s shoulders, Erik pulls away.

Charles frowns. _Erik?_

A cascade of emotion swirls in Erik’s mind, thick and viscous. Anger pulses at the surface of the storm, but it doesn’t take much to see that underneath it is fear. Nervousness. Uncertainty about what’s to come, and what it’ll mean for both of them.

“Don’t do that,” Charles says softly.

Erik’s jaw clenches, but he doesn’t reply. When Charles steps to him and wraps his arms around Erik’s waist again, Erik doesn’t move, just puts a hand on Charles’ and releases a long breath.

“Don’t pull away from me,” Charles says, pressing a kiss to Erik’s shoulder. _Even when you’re scared._

 _I hate being scared,_ Erik replies, with enough bite in his words that Charles winces. _I hate being scared because I know it scares you when you see me like this._

 _It doesn’t scare me_ , Charles says. It’s something of a lie—it _does_ frighten him to know Erik’s frightened, because anything that frightens Erik is a force to be reckoned with, but at the same time, he’d rather Erik share his thoughts rather than keep them all bottled up. The last thing he wants is for Erik to be stupidly chivalrous and try to carry burdens alone when he doesn’t have to.

Erik’s skepticism floats between them, and Charles sighs. _All right, it does scare me, but it’s nothing I can’t handle._ He leans up to press a kiss to the corner of Erik’s mouth. _I want to touch you_. The thought that they’ll be separated soon goes unsaid, but they both hear it anyway.

Erik pulls Charles into his arms, and they hold each other for a while, Charles’s forehead leaned against Erik’s shoulder, Erik’s nose buried in his hair. Charles can feel Barboza’s arrival ticking closer like a time bomb nearing its end, and he’s struck by a sudden desperation to touch Erik all over and feel his solidness and warmth. Erik says nothing when Charles clutches him closer, fingers digging into his back, just tightens his arms around Charles in return. It won’t be a permanent separation—of course it won’t be—but all of a sudden it feels monumental all the same, and Charles is a little afraid to let Erik go.

“I have to confess,” he says, his voice muffled against Erik’s jacket. “Even though I’ve been dating a mob boss for over three years, I still have no idea how to act around one.”

Erik runs a hand up his nape into his hair. “Just listen to what he says. Don’t argue. Don’t try any of the things you try with me. If he asks about me or my organization, don’t give him anything. It’s all common sense really, you’ll be fine.”

Charles huffs a soft, humorless laugh. Common sense. There’s nothing about this situation that’s common sense. For all that he’s thought of himself as part of Erik’s crew, part of Erik’s world, the reality is that he’s just a university professor who moonlights as a member of the mafia from time to time. He still belongs to the world aboveground, not Erik’s world of shadows and intrigue. All this time, staying by Erik’s side has protected him from most of the darker parts of Erik’s life, but now he’s about to step right into one of those rip currents and Erik won’t be there to help him hold his head up.

 _Say the word,_ Erik whispers, pressing his thumb against Charles’s jaw. _Say the word and we stop this. You’ll go to Colorado where you’ll be safe, and I’ll sort this out, one way or another. Everything will be fine._

Charles is touched, truly, that Erik would jeopardize his entire syndicate for Charles’s sake, but it’s hardly a choice. He can’t imagine sitting in some stuffy cabin somewhere in Colorado with nothing to do other than pace around and wait for news. Not knowing what was happening would kill him.

 _I’ll be fine,_ he says, squeezing Erik’s wrist.

A loud knock on the door pulls them apart. Angel sticks her head in and says, “They’re coming up.”

Charles slips his hands into his pockets, both to keep them from trembling with pent-up nerves and to keep from reaching out to Erik. Showtime.

Victor Creed enters first, his mind oozing across the room like an oil slick. Charles wrinkles his nose but keeps still and silent, even when Creed leers at him, yellow teeth bared. Erik fantasizes for a moment about smashing Creed’s face in; the name resonates in his mind with half a dozen hazy, jagged memories of a shared past, back when Erik had still been under Shaw’s thumb. Charles resists the urge to dig through Erik’s memories to see how the two of them know each other, knowing the effort would only waste attention and energy.

A couple of Barboza’s men slide in after Creed and take up posts by the door. Both their minds are clear and open, to Charles’ relief. Then Barboza himself enters, wielding a cigar that one of the club attendants must have offered him. He raises it to Erik with a grin. “This club is just as grand as it was in Shaw’s days. You’ve done well in carrying on his legacy.”

 _Erik, don’t,_ Charles says sharply, laying a mental hand against Erik’s arm.

 _I wasn’t going to do anything,_ Erik replies, terse. Barboza’s just trying to get a rise out of him; everyone knows that there’s no love lost between Erik and Shaw. Aloud, Erik growls, “Let’s skip the pleasantries and get down to business.”

Barboza raises one thick eyebrow and shrugs. “All work and no play makes Jack a very dull boy.”

“It’s a good thing that isn’t my name then.”

Barboza gives a big belly laugh and shakes his head, jowls quivering. “You’re a funnier man than people give you credit for, Lehnsherr.”

“I hope you didn’t come here expecting jokes,” Erik replies, which only makes Barboza laugh again, clenching the cigar between his teeth. Eyes narrowed, Erik says, “So. We made an agreement.”

Barboza nods. “My information, your telepath. A fair trade.”

Erik’s lip curls. “I believe you’re here to discuss the details.”

“Yes.” Barboza gestures to one of the expansive red leather couches with a meaty hand. “Sit. We’ll talk.”

Erik’s scowl deepens at the order, and he remains standing as Barboza makes himself comfortable on the end of the couch. Creed does the same in the matching red armchair, but Barboza’s other two men maintain their positions by the door.

“So,” Erik says flatly, “tell me, what is it you want my telepath for?”

Barboza’s eyes flick over Erik’s shoulder to Charles, his gaze warm and assessing. He knows, Charles realizes with a low thrum of unease. He knows who Charles is. Did Creed finally tell Barboza who he is? Or has Guerrero himself been spreading rumors about Erik’s pet telepath after the shooting in the warehouse? He’d seen Charles’ face, he’d known. He could have revealed Charles’ identity to everyone who’d listen—or he could be playing things close to the chest, to better keep them on their toes.

Either way, Barboza’s watching him like a hawk would watch a mouse, and Charles resists the urge to shy away. He stands tall and cool and pretends he isn’t sweating, pretends he’s used to being sized up every day.

“My reasons are…private,” Barboza says eventually. “Internal affairs in my organization, you might say. Don’t worry, I won’t be turning your little pet on you. No conflicts of interest, I promise.”

There’s a tense beat of silence and only because he knows Erik so intimately well is Charles able to see Erik visibly mastering himself. “You aren’t going to be able to turn someone on my payroll against me,” Erik answers, and Charles is oddly proud of how level and calm his voice comes out, as if Barboza’s taunting isn’t affecting him at all. “My men know better than to bite the hand that feeds them.”

Barboza laughs, but his eyes flick back to Charles again, glinting. Charles doesn’t have to be able to read his mind to know the thought there: _we’ll see_. “Well, I thought I’d offer my assurances anyway. Are you going to introduce us, then?”

Erik snaps his fingers and as they’d discussed, Charles slides forward, stepping up beside Erik and meeting Barboza’s greedy gaze. “Charles Xavier,” he says neutrally, keeping his face blank. They’d debated the pros and cons of Charles using his real name for hours, and ultimately they’d been forced to decide it would just be easiest. “At your service.”

“And how strong is your telepathy, Charles?” Barboza’s raking his gaze across him openly now.

“That’s a terribly forward question, Mr. Barboza,” Charles says, deviating a little from their script and closing a mental fist around Erik’s wrist when he feels the sharp spike in Erik’s temper. “My telepathy is powerful, but only when I’m in very close range to the target. Direct, physical contact is best, but otherwise my range is approximately ten yards.”

The supposed strength of Charles’ powers is another topic they’d thoroughly exhausted. Erik had wanted to tell Barboza Charles needed physical contact period in order to be able to read people’s minds, but Charles had pointed out he’d already frozen Creed in place without laying a finger on him, and there was no way for them to know how much Creed had told Barboza about Charles. Better to play it safe, and it had been Alex’s idea to come up with a set range—it’s far more ideal than admitting Charles is an omega-level telepath, and have Barboza underestimating what Charles can do.

“So we’ll have to get you up close and personal with our targets,” Barboza drawls with another grin.

“Afraid so,” Charles answers with a small shrug.

“Good to know.” Barboza takes a long drag from his cigar, blowing out the smoke slowly. “You’ll do quite nicely for my purposes.”

“He’s only on loan to you,” Erik reminds him, smoothly cutting back in. His temper is back down to a low simmer, the best Charles can hope for given the circumstances. “I can’t loan him off to you full-time. He still has certain duties to perform as far as _my_ purposes go, as he’ll be remaining on my payroll. I’m sure you understand.”

“There are a few days where I’ll need him exclusively,” Barboza concedes, “but I’m sure we can work in some time for you.”

His sly smile makes Charles’s skin crawl. Being in the same room with him now with Erik and his people surrounding them is one thing; being in the same room with Barboza in hostile territory— _exclusively_ —is a frightening prospect. Taking a slow, shallow breath, Charles swallows his fear and shields it from Erik.

Erik’s eyes narrow, but he only says, “Let’s talk then.”

The two of them move over to one of the low, iron-and-glass tables and settle themselves in the armchairs around it. Charles shifts over to stand behind Erik’s chair, not obtrusive enough to be a part of the dealings but not far enough away that he can’t see the tablet they set on the table. On it is a calendar, and as he watches, Erik and Barboza negotiate days, trading hours back and forth until they’ve worked out a rough schedule of the next two weeks of Charles’ life.

It’s slightly surreal to watch, knowing he has no say whatsoever—or at least as far as Barboza knows. He and Erik had gone over together what they would have to expect Barboza would want as far as Charles’ time was concerned, and Erik had run his plan by Charles: he’d try to keep Charles for himself on weekdays, so Charles could continue going to work like normal, but most of Charles’ nights now belong to Barboza. Charles doubts he’ll be getting any good sleep for the next 14 days, but it’s the best they can do. He won’t be able to rest easy until Erik and his people aren’t in danger of being wiped out by Guerrero anyway.

“No, I need him tonight,” Erik says curtly when the subject comes up, and the rush of relief Charles feels is so potent his knees go weak for a moment. It’s only delaying the inevitable, but Charles doesn’t care; this meeting is nerve-wracking enough, so afterwards going home with Erik instead of immediately going out with Barboza will be a godsend. “You’ve already cut into my time enough with this meeting.”

“Very well,” Barobza says, amused. “I assume, then, this is all acceptable for the telepath?” He leans back in his chair and tips his head back to study Charles again lazily. Smoke curls up slowly from the end of his cigar still clamped between two of his thick fingers. Charles fights not to blink.

“He’ll do what I say.” Erik closes down the tablet, the screen going dark. Barboza cannot know Erik treats Charles as an equal, cannot know Charles isn’t really Erik’s employee. “I’ve upheld my end of the bargain, my telepath will be joining you tomorrow night at 6pm.”

“And now for your information,” Barboza answers agreeably, though his eyes linger on Charles a few moments longer before he snaps his fingers and Creed lumbers forward to place a second tablet down on the table’s surface. “Here are my communications with Guerrero from the past two days,” he says, opening up an encrypted file by tapping out the password with one finger. “For starters, you can see he’s planning on moving some more men into the city by smuggling them onto the weapons shipment I’m expecting to arrive tomorrow night. Dock 43.”

He spins the tablet around and pushes it towards Erik, who picks it up and begins to scan through the series of back-and-forth emails saved in the file. Rather than read the information himself, Charles merely ups Erik’s memorization capacity instead, so Erik will be able to perfectly recall every last detail.

“What you do with this information is, of course, up to your discretion,” Barboza continues, taking a long drag from his cigar. He’s watching Erik’s face now, and for some reason his expression makes Charles’ skin crawl more than when Barboza was looking at him instead.

“You can’t afford for it to be known you tipped me off about Guerrero’s men,” Erik says blandly without looking up, “which will be obvious if you withdraw your men. They may find themselves caught in the crossfire.”

A chill runs down Charles’ spine, and he fights not to let it show. Obviously Erik will attack Guerrero’s men before they have time to establish themselves in the city, and take them out before they’ll even realize what’s hit them. This is the side of Erik’s business he usually keeps Charles away from—they don’t even talk about it in passing, and nor does Charles ever read deep enough into Erik’s mind to find out what kind of darker deeds he’s carried out—so Charles isn’t complicit. Now there’s no avoiding it.

“Neither can I warn them,” Barboza says blithely, “because if one of Guerrero’s men escapes alive, it will also be obvious if my men hung back from the fight or even took your side.” He smiles pleasantly. “I’ll be sure to assign men who are expendable to the docks that night.”

“Generous,” Erik says evenly, while Charles fights to control his expression.

 _Erik, you cannot kill those men_ , he hisses, _they’ll just be bystanders!_

 _Bystanders who will probably take Guerrero’s men’s side, because for all they know, their boss is in league with him,_ Erik answers coldly. _I’m not about to tell my men to not shoot at people who will probably be shooting at them._

In his pockets, Charles clenches his fist. If he weren’t stuck with Barboza tomorrow night, he’d be able to convince Erik to get him close enough to the docks to put all of Barboza’s men to sleep and keep them out of the fight.

 _They’re smuggling guns into the city,_ Charles, Erik says, a little gentler, _they’re not exactly innocent men. They know the job they signed up for is dangerous._

 _Don’t try to be logical about murder,_ Charles says bitterly.

“Of course, of course,” Barboza answers, unaware of their silent exchange, “you are, after all, doing me a large favor by lending me your telepath.”

“I think we’re done here tonight,” Erik says, rising to his feet, and Barboza laughs.

“I’ll send a car for the telepath,” he says, hoisting himself up as well. “I’ll be in touch again after we see how the fallout from tomorrow evening goes. Any messages Guerrero sends to me will be forwarded to you directly.” He extends a hand forward with another smirk. “Pleasure doing business with you, Lehnsherr.”

“Unequivocally,” Erik answers tonelessly, shaking Barboza’s hand once.

“Mr. Xavier,” Barboza says, grinning at Charles, and then he bends to stub his cigar out in an ashtray on another side table, before turning and leaving the same way he came in. Creed scoops up the tablet and follows after him, throwing one last searing look at them over his shoulder before the door snaps shut.

 

*

 

As soon as Barboza’s cleared the room, Erik pushes Charles down into the nearest chair with one hand and pulls his phone from his pocket with the other. Charles sits but doesn’t say anything, pale-faced and wan. He’s probably still angry, but Erik also knows him well enough to be able to gauge right now Charles isn’t going to argue further about the dockhands, not when he’s still in turmoil of basically having his life signed away to Barboza.

There’s a ball of tension set in the center of Erik’s back, right between his shoulder blades. Part of him wants to grasp onto everything metal in the lounge and crush it, throw it all against the walls again and again, and give himself some kind of outlet for all _this_. Instead he makes himself dial, sliding his free hand down to rest on Charles’ shoulder.

“Set a meeting for tomorrow morning at 8,” Erik says when Bishop picks up. “I want everyone there.”

“We’ll all be there,” Bishop confirms, and Erik hangs up.

“Angel,” Erik says, eyes tracking to where she stands by the door. “You and Alex go down to Logan’s and update Azazel.”

“You got it,” Angel answers, slipping out the door.

Erik slides his hand back to slip under Charles’ shoulder and arm, gently pulling him up to his feet. Charles allows the motion, unprotesting. “We’re going home.”

“Alright,” Charles says, expressionless, and leads the way when Erik gestures him forward.

The car ride is a blur. Janos is silent in the driver’s seat of the SUV, and beside Erik in the backseat Charles stares out the window. Their telepathic link feels muted, like Charles hasn’t severed it completely but has definitely put up a screen, lost in his own head. Erik sits utterly still, holding himself stiff and straight-backed even when Janos takes sharp turns, and thinks about how he’s just agreed to lend Charles out.

When they arrive home—their actual house for the first time in two days—Rosie greets them happily at the door, stubby tail wagging madly as she licks their hands over and over again. She was dropped off here earlier by some of Erik’s people when Erik and the rest of his detail headed to Hellfire. There’s no point in jumping from safe house to safe house anymore. They might as well return home.

Heedless of his suit, Charles drops down to his knees to greet Rosie properly, scratching her ears and murmuring to her softly while Erik moves further into the house, flicking on a couple lights and extending his powers out.

No one’s been here, as far as he can tell. None of the locks on the doors or windows have been tampered with. Charles’ scattered piles of detritus from work are untouched, and the door to Erik’s home office, always sealed shut when Erik isn’t home, remains undisturbed.

He feels Charles sidle up beside him, Rosie brushing past their legs, and he catches Charles by the arm, stopping him in his tracks and turning to face him. Charles takes a breath, lips parting to speak, but Erik steps in and kisses him, walking him the three steps backwards it takes until he has Charles pressed back against the nearest wall.

Charles kisses him back, gripping onto Erik’s shoulders while Erik fists a hand in his hair, tilting Charles’ face up to meet his. They part briefly for a breath of air, inhaling quickly, and then Charles’ hands slide up behind the back of Erik’s neck to drag him in close again, lips sliding together with a wet sound loud in the silence. He licks across the seam of Charles’ lips and gets his other hand down between them, watching Charles’ eyes flutter shut as he slides his palm down Charles’ chest and belly, slipping his tongue in alongside Charles’.

“Erik,” Charles breaks off the kiss with a sharp exhale as Erik moves between Charles’ legs, thighs tensing around Erik’s hand. Charles doesn’t have any room to move back, the wall solid and unyielding behind him, but he does plant his hands flat on Erik’s chest and push Erik away.

Erik gives a couple inches before leaning forwards against Charles’ hands, stalling. “Charles,” he says dangerously. He can feel Charles is half-hard already in his pants, and it wouldn’t take much to coax him further with his fingers. Erik’s own cock is beginning to fill as well, arousal sharp and hot between them thanks to Charles’ telepathy.

“Why don’t you go take Rosie out,” Charles murmurs, thumbs stroking Erik’s collarbone gently. He’s only a little flushed, red lips wet and shiny. “Then come join me in the bedroom.”

“I don’t care right now if she pees on the floor,” Erik says, leaning forward a little harder.

Charles presses back with a soft laugh. “Romantic.”

“I could just fuse you to the wall,” Erik says, spinning the metal band on Charles’ arm with his powers.

“The bed will be much more comfortable,” Charles answers, an amused glint in his eye Erik hadn’t known he missed so much until now. A second later Erik feels every muscle in his body lock into place, frozen where he stands. Charles withdraws his hands but leans up to kiss Erik chastely, whispering right against his lips, “Nail me on that instead.” He laughs again when Erik fights against the mental hold on him, brushing past Erik and disappearing down the hallway towards the bedroom.

A few moments later Erik hears the bedroom door snap shut and the invisible hold on him drops, leaving him free to move again. He straightens slowly, turning around. He could go straight for their room now, because Charles won’t stop him again, but he decides to play along instead. Anticipation has always been one of their favorite games.

“ _Hier_ , Rosie,” he commands, and Rosie pads out of the kitchen at once, obediently heeling at his side as Erik snaps her leash onto her collar and leads her out the front door.

They walk briskly only about halfway around the block, Erik pausing dutifully to allow Rosie to sniff where she wants or do her business. Their neighborhood is quiet this time of night, empty save for Erik and Rosie, and Erik can still feel the tension building within him, so potent now it’s a wonder the air isn’t crackling around him, like static before a lightning storm.

Impatient, Erik doesn’t quite rush Rosie through the rest of her walk but it’s a near thing, leading her back to the house as soon as he’s certain she’s fully relieved herself. By the time they reach the driveway she thinks it’s a race, prancing ahead of Erik and skittering to a halt outside the front door, tongue lolling happily.

“ _Braver hund_ ,” Erik tells her, unclipping her leash and opening the door with his powers, and she trots inside proudly. Erik spares only seconds to lock up again, latching the deadbolt and sealing the tumblers in place, dropping Rosie’s leash on the side table and making a direct beeline for the bedroom, flicking off lights as he goes.

Just before he reaches the door he feels Charles slide into his mind, curling around him welcomingly. Erik pushes open the door and steps inside, shutting it quickly behind him in case Rosie tries to nose her way inside after him. She’s on her own tonight.

Charles is right there to greet him, pressing up against Erik’s front as soon as the lock clicks into place and dragging him down into a kiss, picking up right where they left off. This time he’s completely nude, every last stitch of expensive fabric removed, and it’s Erik’s back that bumps into the door behind them as he gathers Charles up against him, hands roving all over the smooth skin of Charles’ bare back.

 _Thank you, darling_ , Charles says in his head, and then he breaks away from their kiss and sinks down to his knees, sliding Erik’s belt open and pulling his zipper down.

Erik groans as Charles’ fingers wrap around his cock, stroking him firmly as he draws Erik up out of the front of his pants. “Charles—” he manages to get out, before he breaks off with a full moan as Charles swallows him down, sucking him into perfect wet heat. The back of Erik’s head hits the door with a soft thunk.

 _Lock your knees_ , Charles encourages him, amused, but Erik can’t even muster up a semblance of a reply as Charles begins to bob his head, working Erik’s cock back and forth in his mouth, lips a red _O_ around the girth of it.

Swallowing hard, Erik tips his head back down to take in the sight of Charles, bracing himself back against the door. Charles’ hands slide up Erik’s thighs and come to rest on his hips, fingers spread out wide across Erik’s narrow waist and thumbs spanning across his lower belly. He licks at the underside of Erik’s cock, moving back to trace the tip of his tongue around the swollen head and Erik bites out a curse, lifting one shaky, leaden arm to bury his fingers in Charles’ silky hair and rocking forward.

Charles sends him tacit permission, tilting his head back and opening his throat. Erik guides his cock in deeper, toes nearly curling in his shoes at the feeling of tight, wet heat surrounding his cock and the view he has of Charles, down on his knees in front of Erik, his own cock straining upwards from between his legs, fully hard and already leaking sticky precome against his stomach, eyes half-lidded in pleasure.

Erik strokes the back of Charles’ head and Charles gives his hips a light squeeze, and then he’s moving, rocking his hips forward and fucking Charles’ mouth, steady and even. He’s sweating beneath his suit, Charles’ nose brushing against his open fly on every forward thrust but Erik can’t stop now, white-hot arousal pooling in his gut and nearly mindless with need; need for this, need for Charles.

Laving the underside of Erik’s cock with his tongue when he can, mouth full, Charles moans, and the vibrations around his cock make Erik shudder, gasping out loud as sparks dance up his spine. He’s quickened his pace, his thrusts shorter and faster now, but Charles urges him on, hands sliding back to grip Erik’s ass and squeezing, as if he means to pull Erik all the way in. Erik pants, harsh and loud, and he’s getting close, so close.

“Wait,” he says, nearly curling forward over Charles, letting go of Charles’ hair to grip his shoulders with both hands, “wait, Charles—”

 _You can come down my throat,_ Charles answers, sliding his lips down Erik’s cock, and it takes all of Erik’s might not to come on the spot, clenching his teeth and stomach muscles so tightly he thinks he hears something creak.

Fortunately Charles takes mercy on him, pulling back off of Erik’s cock with a loud, wet pop. His eyes are mere blue slivers as he looks up at Erik, pupils blown wide, and a trail of precome hangs down from his lower lip, connected to Erik’s cockhead, the rest of his mouth glistening, utterly debauched.

Erik nearly comes again from the sight alone, but still he holds back, steeling himself with what little fortitude he has left. “I want to fuck you first.”

Charles smiles, rocking back on his heels with his knees spread wide. He licks his lips slowly, and when he speaks his voice is rough and several octaves lower than normal. “I was hoping you’d say that.”

“Get up,” Erik says, pulling Charles up to his feet and straight into a kiss, tasting himself in Charles’ mouth. Charles hums appreciatively, sucking on Erik’s bottom lip and shivering when Erik squeezes his ass. “On the bed.”

This is usually the point where Charles makes some kind of comment about how bossy Erik is, but right now Charles merely goes, his telepathy swirling in Erik’s head so viscerally Erik can feel him with every breath and blink. Erik can’t tear his eyes away from Charles, watching him climb up onto the bed and situate himself.

He fumbles with his clothes, toeing off his shoes without caring about scuff marks and ripping off his suit jacket, motions jerky and uncoordinated, nothing at all like his usual fluid grace, the careful control he’s fought so hard to always have. Erik can’t concentrate long enough to take his time, letting his jacket drop to the floor and striding towards the bed with his trousers slipping off his hips, ripping his tie off and tossing it aside because the longer he takes getting undressed the longer it means he won’t be touching Charles.

When he reaches the edge of the bed Erik gives up on the buttons of his dress shirt and merely rips the shirt open by force, tearing off some of the buttons and making Charles laugh. Getting his arms out of the sleeves would take too long, though, so Erik leaves the ruined shirt on, climbing up onto the bed and crawling up to Charles, immediately grabbing him by the legs and hiking them up over his shoulders.

“You won’t need the lube,” Charles says, squirming restlessly beneath Erik when Erik holds out a hand, prepared to summon the metal container from the side table drawer. His cock is dripping precome, smearing more of it across his already slick belly. “Did you think I just sat here waiting for you to get back?”

Erik understands at once. He drops his hand down to tease Charles’ hole with one finger, both of them groaning as his finger slides in without resistance. Charles has already prepped himself, his hole loose and slick, and Erik marvels at the feel of it, slipping a second finger in and probing deeper. Beneath him Charles jerks, hips twitching, hands fisting into the duvet and cock leaking another large drip of precome.

They’re both so aroused, Erik could make Charles come just like this, playing with him with only two fingers. But if Charles comes, Erik will certainly come, and Erik wants to be inside him when that happens. He’s wanted to fuck Charles ever since they left the club, almost an hour ago, a base and primal need—Charles often accuses him of being a caveman—to stake his claim and remind both Charles and himself that no matter who Charles goes to work for, it’s still Erik he belongs with.

 _Worry about it later,_ Charles urges, his voice tight with want, _fuck me now, Erik, fuck me now—_

“I’m not going to last,” Erik warns, pulling his fingers out of Charles’ ass fast enough to make Charles shudder. He adjusts his hold on Charles’ legs, lining his own aching cock up with Charles’ warm, inviting hole.

“Neither am I,” Charles says, breath hitching, “we’ll just have to—go for round two later—”

Erik lets out a breath that could be a laugh, but it turns into a moan as he sinks down into Charles at last, pushing into Charles’ body in one long, silky glide. Charles throws his head back with a half-shout, and the pale expanse of his throat is all the invitation Erik needs to fall the rest of the way forward over him.

He snaps his hips, fucking Charles hard and fast, too worked up to even consider starting slow. He feels Charles adjust, thighs shifting to accommodate Erik’s waist and then he starts rolling his hips up to meet Erik’s brutal pace, each forward thrust tearing a small sound out from between his lips.

Erik can feel the dress shirt plastered to his back with sweat as he drives into Charles, their hands tangling on the bed. He ducks down to mouth at Charles’ neck, nipping and sucking at his skin, tasting every single one of Charles’ moans through the vibrations in his throat.

“You c-can’t leave a mark,” Charles gasps out, undulating beneath Erik, “they can’t know I’m—”

“Your shirt collar will hide it,” Erik answers, nearly feverish with desire, fucking into Charles at just the right angle to get him to cry out. He continues sucking his mark into Charles’ skin, just above the deceptively delicate ridge of his collarbone. It’s not about giving Charles a mark other people will see. All that matters is _they_ both know it’s there.

 _Come on, Erik,_ Charles whispers in his head, pressing a kiss to his shoulder. His fingers clench around Erik’s, back arching and his thighs falling open wide around Erik’s hips. _Almost there, we’re almost there._

Orgasm hits Erik like a freight train, slamming into him and pulling Charles over the edge a second later. His vision actually whites out, cock buried deep inside Charles’ ass and flooding him with come, all while Charles turns their bellies and chests into a sticky mess. At some point Erik collapses down on top of Charles, not quite crushing him but effectively pinning Charles down against the mattress.

The air is filled with their heavy breathing for a few long moments, Erik’s heart still racing as he struggles to catch his breath. They haven’t had rough, dirty sex like that in awhile now, but the residual ache already forming in his muscles feels good. He feels sated.

Charles makes a small noise Erik takes as agreement. He’s utterly boneless beneath Erik, his telepathy blurring in and out of focus like a bad radio, as if Erik’s fucked him half out of his head. At that smug thought Charles gives him a weak shove. _Don’t be conceited._

Erik cracks a grin, wrapping an arm around Charles’ back and rolling them both over, lying flat on his back with Charles sprawled out on top of him. The movement causes Erik’s softened cock to slip out of Charles’ ass, and Charles shivers as a small trickle of come follows, stilling only when Erik begins to rub a hand up and down his back soothingly.

Charles props himself up a little, looking down at Erik with an unbearably fond smile. “How’s it look?” His voice is rough and scratchy.

Erik tilts his head up. From this angle, he can just barely see the beginnings of the mark on Charles’ skin. “Needs improvement,” he decides. His own voice is raw too. “We’ll have to work on it a little more.”

Charles snorts, but the hand he smooths across Erik’s hair is gentle. “Let’s get you all the way out of your clothes,” he says, with an amused look at Erik’s destroyed shirt and a small kick at the equally ruined trousers tangled down near his ankles, “and then we’ll see about that.”

 

*

 

Afterwards, the rest of the night is awful. The hours skim by like sand through Erik’s fingers, and try as he might, he can’t make himself relax.

Charles is conked out cold in his arms, dead to the world after three rounds of extremely enthusiastic sex. Erik knows Charles is exhausted, just as stressed as Erik is, but at least he’s managed to pass out. Erik is glad. Charles is going to need all the rest he can get.

Erik, however, couldn’t fall asleep right now if his life depended on it. He stares at the ceiling for a while, then stares at Charles. Normally they leave the curtains cracked as they sleep because Charles likes the way the sun comes in in the morning, but for the last few days since the ambush, Erik’s shut up every window meticulously, too paranoid about giving any enemies a clear shot on target.

Now he wishes the drapes were parted just a little, just to let in enough light for him to see Charles’s face. He can barely make it out in the dimness of the bedroom, but it’s not enough: he wants to see the way Charles’s mouth hangs open when he’s sleeping, the mussed mess of his hair tumbled against the pillow, the adorable crinkle between Charles’s brows that means he’s dreaming. He wants to just hold Charles close because come tomorrow, Charles won’t be only his anymore. It’ll only be temporary and Charles will hardly serve Barboza in the same capacity as he does for Erik, but still—Erik can’t fight away the fierce possessiveness that surges in his chest at the thought of Charles working with anyone else.

It’s too late to turn back now. Refusing to send Charles over to Barboza at this point would only invite actual open war, and Erik wouldn’t put it past Barboza to turn on Erik and go back to shack up with Guerrero instead. Erik knows this is their best option. Their only option. He’s agreed to it. It doesn’t mean he has to like it.

He spends the rest of the night wrestling with being forced to trust Barboza. Barboza claims he’s turning on Guerrero and making an alliance with Erik, but Erik has no way of determining whether or not it’s just a ploy. Barboza could be leading him right into a trap, working with Guerrero all along.

Barboza could bring Charles deep into his territory and put a bullet in his head, and Erik wouldn’t be able to do a thing to stop him. Guerrero had wanted to take Charles out, and had nearly well succeeded. This could be one large plot to get Charles separated from Erik just long enough to kill him.

Erik doesn’t sleep a wink.

 

*

 

When the alarm goes off in the morning Charles finds he would rather stay curled up in bed with Erik all day until it’s time for him to go meet Barboza, only he knows it would be impossible. For one thing, he has to go back to work—his _real_ job—before they fire him, and for another, Erik is far too twitchy for Charles to even dream of asking him to stay still, already showered and dressed with murder in his eyes and the promise of violence in every line of his body.

So Charles sighs to himself, gives Erik a gentle kiss, and then forces himself to get up and head into the bathroom for a shower. He’s sore from last night, aching in the good kind of way he’d normally enjoy all day. Today the small twinges only add to the tension already settling in his neck and shoulders for reasons less pleasant.

Stripping down outside the shower while waiting for the water to get warm, Charles examines himself in the mirror. Erik’s certainly left his mark, the dark bruise on Charles’ collarbone tender when he brushes his fingers over it. Charles normally doesn’t allow Erik to mark him up like he’s some kind of prize to be coveted or won, so he has no idea how long the mark will linger before fading away. He hopes it’s at least two weeks.

By the time Charles has finally moved out of the bathroom to get dressed, Erik’s taken Rosie out and filled Charles’ favorite thermos with hot tea, pressing it into Charles’ hands as he passes by to fetch his briefcase. Charles finds his satchel, stuffing a stack of essays he still has yet to grade into it, and then they’re out the door, piling into the black SUV Erik has waiting for them at the end of the driveway.

“Morning,” Alex greets them sleepily, one hand covering a yawn as Janos pulls away from the curb, taking off down the street. He’s slouched in the front passenger seat, dressed like he’s a university student ready for a long day of classes.

“Good morning, Alex, Janos,” Charles says, taking a careful sip of tea. His threads his fingers through Erik’s with his other hand, while on his other side Rosie lies down on the seat with her head in Charles’ lap.

The car ride is silent after that. Janos has never been much of a talker, and Alex is still trying to wake the rest of the way up. Erik flips through messages on his phone, mind churning, but he doesn’t brush Charles away when Charles leans up against him mentally, not actually looking in to overhear Erik’s thoughts, but just to stay close, like listening to a heartbeat.

Charles is normally dropped off at the closest subway station, since he’s always been adamant about keeping Erik and anything to do with the mob far away from the university, but today he doesn’t comment as Janos bypasses the station. If it’ll make Erik feel better, he’ll let them drive him all the way to campus for the next two weeks, and Charles would be lying if he said it didn’t make him feel better too.

Traffic is a nightmare but Janos navigates them through it with his usual ease, and all too soon they’re pulling to a stop about half a block away from campus. Alex unbuckles and slides out of the car immediately, Janos not far behind him, and Erik puts his phone down and pulls Charles into a kiss, one arm wrapped around behind Charles’ back. Charles kisses back, reaching up to cup the back of Erik’s head, stroking his hair gently.

“Alex will walk you down, but he’s not staying,” Erik says when they part, foreheads pressed together. “Don’t leave your building. I’ll have lunch delivered. Wait for my call and we’ll pick you up after your last class.”

“I’ll probably work through lunch anyway,” Charles admits, thinking of the pile of essays and lecture notes he needs to catch up on.

“You can eat at your desk,” Erik answers, kissing him again while Rosie noses at Charles’ shoulder. Charles reaches back to pet her absently, far too absorbed in the kiss.

It takes some maneuvering, but finally Charles is sliding out of the car and out onto the sidewalk with his satchel and thermos of tea, slamming the door shut before Rosie can hop out after him. Erik rolls the window down and Charles nearly laughs as both Erik and Rosie look out at him—mob boss and loyal dog regarding him solemnly.

“You know how to reach me,” Erik says simply, eyes tracking across Charles one last time. “I’ll see you later.”

“Good luck,” Charles answers, reaching over to pat Rosie on the head. _Call me if something changes._

Erik carefully pulls Rosie back before rolling up the window again, darkly tinted glass blocking them from view. Janos climbs back into the driver’s seat and the SUV pulls away from the curb, leaving Charles and Alex on the sidewalk. Charles shoulders his satchel, trying to organize his thoughts and compose his expression. A nice, normal day of classes will be good for him.

He’s dreading 6:00 tonight, a solid heaviness in his gut.

“So you’re stuck with me this morning,” Charles says to Alex, giving him a brief smile as they turn together to head towards campus.

Alex starts to reply, but interrupts himself with a huge, jaw-cracking yawn. “Ugh, sorry. And I’m only walking you to your building, and then I’m gone.”

“Keep doing that, you’re blending right in,” Charles assures him wryly and Alex laughs wearily.

“Do your students really sleep in your classes?” Alex asks. He’s doing a casual survey of the street as they walk, eyes scanning constantly, alert even though he appears to be drowsy. Charles is already keeping up a low-level awareness of any minds within a 50-yard radius of them, but he lets Alex do his job regardless.

“Some here and there,” Charles answers, “but I don’t take it too personally. It’s their own time and money they’re wasting if they sleep through lecture, not mine.”

“You should let Erik attend your classes,” Alex suggests, “he’d prowl around scaring everyone into total compliance.”

“Exactly why I _don’t_ let him come to my classes,” Charles answers dryly.

Alex laughs again. “Point.”

They come to a stop together just across the street from campus, waiting for the pedestrian crossing sign to light up. “Alex, Azazel has his cell with him at Logan’s clinic, doesn’t he?”

“Yeah,” Alex answers, playing with the strap of his mostly empty backpack. “We’ve been keeping him up-to-date on all the shit that’s going down.”

“Could I get his number from you?” Charles asks, keeping his voice casual.

“I don’t see why not,” Alex answers after a beat, though he’s eyeing Charles suspiciously. “What do you need to talk to him for?”

Charles glances around, doing another quick sweep with his telepathy, but all the other people gathered at the crosswalk are absorbed in their phones and ipods. No one’s paying attention. “Dealing with volatile mafia dons.”

Alex snorts, digging his phone out of his pocket. “Aren’t you like, the resident expert?”

“I don’t actually work for Erik,” Charles reminds him. “Nor does he treat me like a subordinate—”

“—only when he’s on an ego trip,” Alex mutters.

“—and he lets me into his head,” Charles continues, though he quirks a faint smile in acknowledgement. “Barboza, however, will not. I’m going in very blind, if I’m not going to be able to use my telepathy. Barboza might as well be a rabid dog for all I’ll be able to predict what he’s going to do since I won’t be able to read him.”

“And you’re not asking Erik about what to expect because…?” Alex asks dubiously.

Charles raises an eyebrow, giving him a flat look.

“You’re right, Azazel’s a better choice,” Alex agrees, opening his contacts on his phone and handing it over to Charles. “Hell, he’ll probably be pleased to have you call. He’s bored as fuck.” He winces. “Er, sorry.”

“I’m not your parent, I’m hardly going to scold you for dropping an f-bomb,” Charles says dryly. He memorizes Azazel’s number, handing Alex his phone back. “Thank you.” He doesn’t mention he’s counting on Azazel’s boredom to mean Erik’s right-hand-man will be eager to divulge what he hopes will be a fountain of information. It won’t be as good as having telepathy to guide him, but at least Charles won’t be entirely groping in the dark.

The pedestrian light turns green and they cross the street, officially stepping onto campus. The biology building where Charles has his office, lecture hall, and lab isn’t far from here, but Alex sticks with him, weaving through the morning crowds of people. Alex is young, just about the same age as the undergrads at the university, but already he moves in an entirely different way than the regular students: there’s an edge to him, an unmistakable vibe he gives off recognizable even without telepathy. Charles sees it in Erik all the time, and amongst his peers it’s obvious in Alex too: he’s no regular civilian.

“Alright, boss,” Alex says as they come to a stop at the foot of the steps leading up into the biology building, “you’re on your own for the rest of the day, unless something happens. Erik’s already got an evac plan if it comes to it. You already know to call him.”

“Ridiculous,” Charles says, because even though this isn’t a normal situation, part of him still can’t shake the feeling all this security is absurd. He’s spent so long holding all of Erik’s paranoia-fueled wishes to slap a detail on him 24/7 at bay, it’s hard now to gracefully accept the extra protection. At least Erik isn’t insisting on having some of his people sitting in on Charles’ lectures today, though it’s probably only because it’ll draw more attention to Charles than any real sense of honoring Charles’ independence. “I’ll see you this afternoon.”

“Later, Professor,” Alex says with an easy grin, probably reading all of it off of Charles’ expression. He turns and slides back into the crowd, cutting around the side of the building and disappearing from view.

Charles finds it nearly impossible to focus for most of the morning. It’s getting harder and harder to switch gears from the harsh tension of Erik’s world to the quieter, more ordinary calmness of his own. He’s not even sure if he can call his old life “his own world” anymore; he feels like he’s straddling the line between the two, between light and shadow, between day and night. More and more these days, his dealings with Erik feel like his real job, while his professorly duties feel like a part-time gig.

Really not what he expected when he graduated from Oxford at twenty-three all bright-eyed and eager to change and shape young minds, he thinks ruefully. He’s not sure anything could have prepared him for Erik Lehnsherr’s entrance into his life.

He makes it through his morning lectures through sheer muscle memory—fortunately he could give most of his lectures in his sleep by this point, so talking about ribosomes while his thoughts are thousands of miles away is laughably easy—and thanking those students who come up to his podium after each class to welcome him back and ask how he’s feeling. Hank in particular is especially relieved to see him back, and he seems so happy to take the stack of unmarked essays off of Charles’ hands to grade himself rather than having to give another set of lectures, Charles doesn’t feel too guilty foisting them off on him.

During his mid-morning break, Charles calls the department chair and apologizes for all the sporadic days of absence he’s been taking this year. She’s nothing but understanding which _does_ make Charles guilty, and after he hangs up Charles spends the rest of his break slumped in his office chair with one hand over his eyes wearily. Such naivety he had, at the beginning of all of this, thinking he could keep his two lives wholly separate.

By the lunch hour, Charles feels worn down and he thinks it’s beginning to show—several of his students in his last lecture were thinking loudly about how Dr. Xavier looks kind of pale today. Normally if he doesn’t go out for lunch with Hank or another one of his colleagues, his lunch hour also serves as an extra open office hour before his real office hours start in the afternoon, but today he shuts his door and locks it as soon as he steps inside.

As Erik promised, there’s a brown paper sack perched on Charles’ desk containing lunch in the form of takeout from the same Thai place Charles had wanted to try three nights ago. Charles can’t help but smile as he digs out a carton of noodles and a pair of chopsticks, reaching out with his telepathy across the city to find Erik, his mind buzzing away with his usual sharp focus. Charles presses his thanks into Erik’s mind, along with the sensation of a brief kiss, and Erik’s mind holds onto him for a moment, firm and unwavering, before letting go as Erik turns back to whatever it is he’s doing.

Charles withdraws slowly, winding himself back into his own head and breaking apart his chopsticks. They’ve come a long way from when Erik only knew how to telepathically communicate by blasting Charles with his thoughts.

Instead of getting any real work done, Charles eats his pad thai with his chair swiveled around towards his office window, watching the pedestrian traffic of students passing by. He can’t do this all week, or he’ll never get anything done, but he thinks he can take today to be listless and useless at work. Tonight is his first night he’ll be going to work for Barboza.

Once he’s finished eating and cleared the trash away, Charles digs out his phone and dials Azazel’s number from memory. While he waits for the call to connect, he spares a moment to check with his telepathy and make sure no one’s lingering outside his office, but the coast is clear.

“This had better be good,” Azazel growls, picking up after only two rings.

“It’s Charles.”

“Ah, _Charles_ ,” Azazel says with obvious delight, his tone growing warmer by a good twenty degrees and purposefully adopting a sly, teasing tone. “It must be my lucky day, if the boss’ _myshka_ is calling me.”

“Just because you’re lying in bed with a broken leg doesn’t mean I still won’t turn your brain inside out if you continue to call me that,” Charles says pleasantly, though he smiles a little. “I hope you’re healing well, by the way.”

“Da, it is set straight,” Azazel answers, “and you wouldn’t. Sweet Rose would miss me too much.”

“Rosie certainly misses your stench.”

“Ah, so cruel,” Azazel laments, “I see Erik’s been rubbing off on you—” he pauses, and then purrs, “—in more ways than one, of course.”

“Don’t be vulgar,” Charles says calmly, and Azazel laughs.

“What can I do for you, Dr. Xavier,” he says, drawling out the rough consonants in his thick accent lazily. “I hear you have a busy night tonight.”

“That’s actually why I called,” Charles admits, settling deeper into his chair. He glances at the clock, determining he has a good 25 minutes before he’ll have to open his door for office hours. “I need to know what to expect.”

“I am assuming,” Azazel says, though he sounds thoughtful rather than suspicious, “Erik does not know you are calling.”

“No, he doesn’t.”

“A wise choice,” Azazel says cheerfully, “because if he thought you weren’t feeling confident enough he’d pack you off to another continent.”

“The current threat is Colorado,” Charles replies, and Azazel laughs again, “so don’t give him any bigger ideas.”

“I would say he is compensating for something, but—ah, you would know better than I would.”

“So what should I expect?” Charles asks pointedly, steering the conversation back on track.

“Barboza will try to recruit you, of course,” Azazel answers smoothly. He wouldn’t be Erik’s second-in-command if he spent _all_ his time making crude jokes. “Assuming his intention is _not_ to kill you immediately.”

“Of course,” Charles repeats, voice steady.

“You know how valuable an asset your telepathy is, in this business. Barboza will try to find out what Erik has on you—why you’re working _for_ him, for example, rather than disposing of Erik’s mind and taking over the business yourself. Then he’ll offer you a better deal.”

“But there’s nothing,” Charles says, “Erik doesn’t have anything on me.”

“Yes,” Azazel agrees, sounding amused, “and I don’t believe I need to explain to you how unwise it would be to mention Erik is fucking you.”

“No.”

“Other than that…” Azazel trails off musingly. “Do as he says. Erik indulges you on your strange brand of morals, but Barboza will expect full compliance.”

“I know.” Charles feels sick at the thought. His largest fear, or one of them, is Barboza ordering him to outright murder someone. He still doesn’t know what he’ll do if it comes down to it.

“Do not look him in the eye,” Azazel continues, “always remain standing unless he indicates otherwise. If he asks you to fetch him something, do it quickly. Your status as a telepath and asset probably guarantees he won’t try to outright humiliate you, but he may try to push your boundaries.”

“Understood.” Charles has his pride, but he can handle the kinds of things Azazel is talking about. He knows he’s not going to Barboza as an honored guest. He’s a hostage.

“You are not temperamental like Erik, you know to keep your mouth shut despite whatever filth pours from Barboza’s mouth,” Azazel mutters, like he’s talking to himself and Charles just happens to be listening. “Ah, and watch yourself around Creed. I would avoid ending up being alone with him in the room. He has a particular set of tastes that are, how to put…” Charles can imagine Azazel wrinkling his nose. “...unfit for polite company.”

“So far Creed’s never worn a set of blockers during our meetings,” Charles answers, “and I’m hoping it stays that way. If he comes near me, I’m shutting him down.”

“Very good,” Azazel says, sounding pleased. “If I may make a request, I would pay good money to see you turn Creed into a little girl holding a tea party.”

“If I ever open up commissions, you’ll be the first to know,” Charles says dryly, but somehow he feels marginally better. Under any other normal circumstances, Charles doesn’t think he’d get along with Azazel at all. But Erik’s right-hand man has grown on him over the years, and Charles would even venture so far as to say he actually likes Azazel, even with the constant ribbing, inappropriate sense of humor and all. “Can you think of anything else?”

“No,” Azazel says simply. “We have no guarantee Barboza will not kill you as soon as he has you out of Erik’s sight. We do not know if he intends to betray us to Guerrero in the end. We do not know, but so we go.”

“That’s reassuring,” Charles says flatly, though he understands what Azazel is getting at. Charles still feels uneasy, nervous to the point of something like indigestion, but it no longer feels so overwhelming. It’s more manageable. He can handle this.

Azazel laughs. “If we wanted an easy job, we would all be college professors.”

“Oh, you think so?” Charles asks, lifting an eyebrow even though Azazel can’t see him. “I’ve seen how you fill out paperwork for Erik. You should see the forms I have to fill out for my lab.”

“I think the drugs are kicking in,” Azazel says, his voice exaggeratedly foggy, “I’m suddenly falling asleep…”

“Thanks for the advice,” Charles says, glancing at the clock. He has just enough time to enter some grades before his office hours officially start. If he’s lucky, no one will turn up for at least the first hour or so.

“Good luck tonight, _myshka_ ,” Azazel answers, his voice solemn even though Charles can hear his grin, “I will miss you if you end up with your brains on the pavement.”

Charles reaches out across the city and finds Azazel’s mind, giving him a mental flick just hard enough to make Azazel’s brain twinge sharply for a moment. Azazel’s still cursing when Charles ends the call, swiveling around in his chair and tossing his phone onto his desk with a long release of breath. He still has two hours of office hours and one more lecture to survive. He has time.

He has a distinct feeling, however, the afternoon isn’t going to drag along like this morning.

 


	6. Chapter 6

 

Erik comes to collect him at exactly 4:30 when his last lecture ends. Even if Charles didn’t almost always keep a thread of his power stretched out to Erik, he would’ve noticed Erik coming from miles away: his mind is dark and roiling, noticeably louder than the low-level hum of the other minds surrounding him, filled with sharp, echoing thoughts that seem to snap at Charles’ touch when he brushes up against them.

Erik’s not doing it on purpose, but his anxiety about the afternoon is making him irascible. Charles tugs his telepathy back and focuses on the last remaining minutes of his lecture, flipping distractedly through PowerPoint slides until finally the clock strikes half past four.

When he’s sure none of his students have any questions, he reaches out to Erik and says, _I’ll be out in five_.

Erik sends back a wordless reply, and Charles dips into his head for a location: Erik’s on the edge of the campus in the limo, out of the way of the streams of students heading home for the afternoon. He’d thought about coming directly to Charles’s office, but he’d figured Charles wouldn’t appreciate it. _Good boy,_ Charles says in response to that, and Erik gives him the equivalent of a mental pinch.

That doesn’t mean he doesn’t still get an escort. Charles has hardly finished packing his satchel when Alex appears in the doorway of his office, hands shoved into his pockets. “Ready to go?”

“I think I can manage to walk three blocks to the car by myself,” Charles huffs, but it’s a half-hearted protest. He does feel better having Alex by his side, if only because he’s been feeling particularly vulnerable these last couple days. He’ll have to make sure Erik knows this can’t be a regular thing though.

“Maybe,” Alex says with a shrug, “but orders are orders.”

“Indeed.”

Alex waits patiently as Charles makes sure his office door is locked, and then falls into step beside him as they make their way down the hall. Charles fills the silence with idle talk about his classes, so it won’t look too strange for them to be walking together, pretending Alex is a student interested in taking one of his courses. For his part, Alex pretends to listen, though Charles can feel his thoughts are thousands of miles away, his grip on his phone down at his side knuckle-white.

“Dr. Xavier!” Hank sticks his head out of one of the closets the department likes to call TA offices. “I’m almost finished with the essays, did you want to take the ones I’ve already marked?”

“No, Hank, thanks very much,” Charles says, hoping he sounds as distracted and harried as he feels so he won’t be drawn into an hour-long discussion. “Keep them for the night and put them on my desk tomorrow morning, sound good?”

“Sure thing,” Hank says. He gives Alex a curious glance but doesn’t ask. Good old Hank. “Have a good night, Dr. Xavier.”

“You too,” Charles says, and picks up his pace to reach the doors so it at least looks like he’s in a hurry. Alex actually trots to keep up, getting ahead of him and pushing open the glass door for Charles as they both step outside.

“Who’s the bozo?” Alex asks, hopping down the stairs to the sidewalk.

“Hank is my very intelligent grad student who has been running all my classes during my absences,” Charles answers, adjusting his satchel. They make their way swiftly off campus, following the general flow of foot traffic. “He’s met Erik before and lived to tell the tale, so he’s made of sterner stuff than he looks.”

“Is he,” Alex says dubiously. He shoulders past a guy looking down at his phone and going in the opposite direction, throwing him a glare. “I used to take lunch money from guys who looked like that. I’m surprised Erik didn’t chew him up and spit him out sideways.”

“He may have wanted to,” Charles admits. He decides not to get into how Hank had assumed he was being abused by Erik, since they’d met shortly after Charles had been shot and as a consequence Charles unfortunately hadn’t been looking his best. He knows Hank still privately harbors his suspicions, but at least he mostly continues to mind his own business. “Luckily I was there.”

Alex snorts, shaking his head.

When they reach Erik’s limo, the back door pops open automatically on its own for Charles, while Alex climbs into the front with Janos. Charles ducks inside, setting his satchel on the floor and pulling the door shut behind him.

Erik sits in the center of the backseat, tapping out something on his phone. The rest of the cab is empty, the partition between them and the driver’s seat rolled up to give them privacy. As the car begins to move Charles scoots over beside him, fitting himself into Erik’s space and leaning against him heavily, tucked under the arm Erik automatically lifts to draw Charles in even closer.

“Hey,” Erik says, tossing his phone onto the seat and turning to give Charles a brief kiss.

“Hi,” Charles answers. He smooths his telepathy across Erik’s mind, not reading his thoughts on the plans for the docks tonight but simply basking in his presence. He smudges out the low-level headache Erik has, and feels Erik give a small sigh of relief. “Lunch was good.”

“I wondered,” Erik says, but he’s pleased, satisfied Charles had enjoyed what he’d sent over. “How were your classes?”

“Difficult to focus on,” Charles answers honestly. “My students were glad to see me back, though.”

“Good,” Erik says, stroking his fingers slowly along Charles’ arm. “Say the word, Charles, and I’ll have you three states away from here by 6 pm.”

“I’m fine,” Charles says firmly. It’s only a half-lie. “How did planning go?”

“We’re all set,” Erik answers. If he’s disappointed in Charles’ answer, he doesn’t show it. He seems to finally be fully resigned to things. “The whole operation should be well over by the time you’re back from Barboza’s.”

“You’re optimistic.”

“We’re already up shit creek,” Erik says with a shrug. “No use in trying to paddle ourselves in circles now. We have contingencies if things go wrong, but thanks to Barboza’s information this should be cut and dry.”

“Unless Barboza’s deliberately setting you up.”

“Then we won’t really be around to worry about the aftermath anyway.”

Erik says it casually, but it’s a sobering thought. They spend the rest of the ride in silence as the limo crawls along in traffic towards Erik’s building, content to merely be close to one another. Charles leans his head against Erik’s shoulder and doesn’t think of much of anything at all, keeping his mind blank while listening to the rise and fall of Erik’s thoughts, buzzing away even though he half-slumps against Charles wearily.

Clarice greets them when the limo arrives outside Erik’s building, and transports them directly from the sidewalk up to Erik’s office, closing the portal behind them once they’re through. She doesn’t accompany them, and once again they’re alone.

Erik’s office is empty, though Charles knows he has to have had people in and out all day while they prepared for tonight. Charles doesn’t condone going to the docks and shooting the place up, which he knows is more or less what’s going to happen, but when it comes to mob turf wars and gang fights, Charles has learned to swallow his morals and civilian sense of obeying the law. This just isn’t his world.

Erik generally keeps him out of the loop as far as any actual violence goes both for the sake of Charles’ peace of mind as well as plausible deniability; the only reason Charles knows about it this time is because Charles has been directly caught up in it ever since they were rammed by a pickup truck and shot at with a machine gun from a helicopter. It’s still not a happy thought, and Charles sinks down onto the couch heavily.

There’s no doubt he loves Erik, impossibly enough, and logically he knows things were bound to come to this eventually: Charles is in too deep. He hadn’t wanted anything to do with the mob, but back then there was the problem with Shaw. It was logical to accept Erik’s deal. He hadn’t wanted to end up working for Erik either, after Shaw was run out of town, but Erik was persistent. Their entanglement became romantic. It wasn’t hard to agree to lend out his services to Erik every now and then, for the business end of things. Illegal, yes, but it wasn’t murder.

If he’d simply refused, he wouldn’t be a bargaining chip on the table at all. Erik wouldn’t have a telepath for other bosses to request on loan. But it’s too late now.

Erik is looking at Charles grimly, like he can read every one of Charles’ doubts and fears off his face. “You should eat something,” is all he says, picking up the white paper sack sitting on the edge of his desk and bringing it over to the couch.

“I’m really not that hungry,” Charles says, which is true enough.

“Your stomach will thank me later,” Erik answers, pulling out a pair of sandwiches from one of their favorite Jewish delis. He offers one to Charles. “You don’t have to finish it. You’re just not going to want to be running on an empty stomach all night.”

“Okay,” Charles says, taking it and unwrapping it while Erik sinks down beside him. He takes a bite, chewing mechanically, not even really tasting it. He tries not to think about how this might be like a last meal.

He can feel Erik burning with the desire to offer him an out one last time. _You don’t owe me this_ , he’s thinking, loudly enough to unintentionally project, but he doesn’t say anything. Charles is relieved. He’s not sure his slowly-fracturing resolve would be up to allowing him to refuse an escape route one last time.

Charles doesn’t want to run away. It doesn’t mean he’s not terrified.

“If something happens,” he says abruptly, before he can really stop himself, “tell Raven the truth.” He puts his sandwich down, two-thirds of it still uneaten. He can’t stomach anything more. “I know you can’t publicly connect yourself to it if I—if the worst happens. But Raven should know the truth.”

“Alright,” Erik says quietly. He hasn’t eaten much of his sandwich either, even though normally he’ll wolf his down and then Charles has to fend Erik off from eating the rest of his. He takes Charles’ hand, tangling their fingers together. “Anyone else?”

“No,” Charles says, swallowing. “Just—” _Try to get my body back_ , he thinks, not quite able to say it aloud, _don’t let them bury me in a vat of cement underneath a building somewhere or—_

“Stop it,” Erik says sharply, a flash of searing anger crackling between them. Charles feels the metal band on his arm heat up, but not enough to burn, a few of the metal fixtures in the room shuddering once before falling still again. “Enough.”

Charles doesn’t look at him, eyes fixed on the wide window on the other side of the room.

“Not everyone in Barboza’s entourage will have telepathic blockers,” Erik continues, his voice tight and controlled.

“They could be,” Charles says wearily. He’s personally expecting it, since there’s no way Barboza will want to risk Charles reading the minds of his people once they’ve got him surrounded.

“You aren’t going to _hesitate_ to take control of whoever you can in order to defend yourself if need be,” Erik plows on, “and if you have to kill, then you aren’t going to hesitate to kill, either.”

“I’m not going to kill anyone.”

_Then why are you volunteering for this_ , Erik thinks bitterly, but Charles feels him shut down the line of thought almost immediately. They argued about this long and hard two nights ago, and Charles can tell Erik has no desire to spend their last bit of time before Charles has to leave rehashing the argument.

He feels Erik’s fingers at his chin, gently tilting Charles’ face back towards him. Charles allows the motion, turning to meet Erik’s gaze. “Promise me you’ll do whatever it takes if it means you’ll be coming back to me,” Erik says, level and inflectionless.

“I promise,” Charles says softly, and leans in when Erik does to kiss him. He doesn’t say his telepathic reflexes can still be beaten by bullets. He’s not infallible, but better if Erik spends the evening thinking Charles is. _Promise me you’ll be safe tonight too._

_I’m not going tonight_ , Erik answers, and then heaves a soft sigh when Charles breaks their kiss out of surprise. “It makes little sense, tactically, for me to be there. It would be embarrassing if this _did_ turn out to be a trap and I walked into it personally. Bishop’s leading the team.”

Charles squeezes Erik’s hand, trying not to let too much of his deep-seated _relief_ show. He knows it kills Erik not to be going on the mission, leading his men personally. Charles is selfish enough not to care. “So you’ll be here?”

“I’ll be here,” Erik confirms with a small nod, giving a faint grimace. “Waiting.”

“Someone has to run the business,” Charles tells him.

“It also means I’ll be readily available for you,” Erik says, ignoring what Charles said even as he focuses on him intently. “Either telepathically or a phone call. There’ll be nothing distracting me from answering immediately.”

“If you’re afraid I’m too proud to call for help if I need it, think again,” Charles says, giving a small, shaky laugh. “I’m glad.”

“Good.”

There’s a soft knock on the door. “Barboza’s car just passed the checkpoint, boss,” comes Angel’s voice through the wood, “ETA ten minutes.”

“We’ll be down,” Erik replies.

“Gotcha.”

“Well,” Charles says after a small pause, once he’s certain Angel’s left again. This is it. He isn’t even sure what to say.

Erik rises to his feet, offering Charles a hand up as well. “Time to change.”

Charles changes out of his regular clothes into the nondescript but finely-tailored black suit waiting for him in Erik’s side wardrobe quickly, shrugging on his bulletproof vest instead of a waistcoat. Erik’s tinkered with the metal, thinning it out so it’s even less bulky than it originally was, and strengthening it as much as he can. As Charles loops his tie around his neck and ties a quick windsor knot, Erik smooths his large hands down Charles’ sides, giving the vest some last-minute tweaks. It won’t protect Charles fully, they both know, but it could mean the difference between bleeding out in seconds or being able to get out a call for help.

“Charles,” Erik says, and then stops.

Charles crushes Erik to him, kissing him hard, going up almost on his toes to wrap both his arms around Erik’s neck. One of Erik’s hands tangles in Charles’ hair while his other presses against his lower back, kissing Charles back rough and fierce, the outpour of their emotions strong enough to nearly skew Charles’ vision if he didn’t already have his eyes shut tightly.

They separate a few moments later, slowly parting. Charles trails a hand down Erik’s shoulder and Erik’s fingers brush against the inside of Charles’ wrist. He catches Charles’ hand, holding onto him as they step out of Erik’s office and head down the hall for the elevator, and they grip each other tightly for the entire ride down.

When the elevator doors slide open, they’re no longer touching at all.

Charles steps out alone, footsteps echoing loudly on the marble floor of the sparsely populated lobby. He doesn’t look back to watch the elevator doors slide shut again, blocking Erik from view, but he keeps a small link between them anyway; he can’t carry Erik along with him in the same way he’d be able to accompany Erik if their positions were reversed, but he can keep a channel open for communication. He won’t be able to maintain it once he’s far enough away across the city—he could in theory, but they’d agreed it would be overall too distracting—but for now he mentally holds Erik’s hand as he crosses the lobby and exits out the heavy glass front doors.

Keeping up appearances is a skill he’s honed since childhood, and Charles finds it natural to adopt a calm, seamless facade as he approaches the town car idling at the curb. He pushes back his fear and locks it away, setting his shoulders and back straight, his expression smooth with untouchable calm.

Victor Creed leans against the side of the car, watching Charles approach. Charles doesn’t even give him a chance, lifting up his shields and settling them firmly into place, blocking out any incoming blast of thoughts. Creed merely smirks, pushing himself off the car, and opening the back door with a mocking flourish.

Charles gets into the car, sliding into the backseat next to a man with fists the size of his head. His bulk takes up the majority of the seat but Charles keeps just the barest amount of space between them so they’re not touching while Creed slams the door shut and climbs into the front passenger seat. The driver, a bald man in a nondescript suit like Charles’ and dark sunglasses despite the swiftly fading sunlight, takes off into traffic at once, a few horns blaring in their wake.

_Be safe_ , Erik says, the connection faint because of Charles’ shields, and Charles sends him one last wave of wordless reassurance before reluctantly letting go.

The car ride is silent. Charles holds himself relaxed and at ease, watching their progress out the window as they work their way through Manhattan and take the exit for the Brooklyn Bridge, shooting over the East River and heading into Brooklyn proper. Charles hasn’t been out to Brooklyn in ages, so he’s content to preoccupy himself taking in the change of view even though he remains aware of the man beside him openly staring at him unblinkingly.

After what feels like an age of traffic, they pull into the parking lot of a small Italian restaurant, almost homey on the outside with flowers growing out of the window boxes and a neatly-trimmed hedge running around the edges of the little brick building. The driver pulls up outside the front doors and Charles, Creed, and the huge man climb out of the car.

The restaurant is busy tonight, filled with people and the low murmur of conversation. Nobody looks up as their party passes by the hostess stand, Charles following behind Creed in a beeline through the tables. With his telepathy Charles can feel everyone is generally relaxed, no twinges of nervousness passing through any of the diners’ minds at the sight of mafia thugs. Barboza must frequent the establishment, then, and it must be under his so-called protection.

Barboza himself sits in a large booth at the very back of the restaurant, silverware in his hands glinting in the light of the candle on the table as he cuts into a large steak. Several other men just as bulky and bald as the man currently breathing down Charles’ neck are situated in the next booth over, their size almost comically dwarfing the table setting.

Sitting across from Barboza, sweating through his cheap suit and looking like he’d rather be anywhere else in the world, is Chavez, the same man Erik’s people captured three days ago to gain some intel on Barboza’s upcoming plans.

Charles feels his insides turn to ice. Barboza knows. Somehow, impossibly, Barboza knows. As Creed leads him up to the table, Charles reaches out with his telepathy as stealthily as he can, only to run into a solid, blank wall. Both Barboza and Chavez are wearing telepathic blockers.

A quick scope around the rest of Barboza’s men tells Charles they’re all wearing blockers—everyone, of course, except Creed. _You expected this_ , Charles tries to remind himself as he comes to a stop beside Barboza’s table. Charles had known he’d be going in totally blind.

But the unknown variable of Chavez is throwing him off. Chavez certainly hadn’t known about Guerrero when Erik had questioned him, or otherwise none of this would have played out like it has. And there’s no way Chavez would remember being questioned—Charles had wiped his memory of the evening, replacing it with a fuzzy memory of going to a bar and getting drunk. There’s no possible way for Chavez’s memory to have returned.

Then what’s he doing here? Why does Barboza have one of his middle-ranked men sitting with him at the dinner table, who just so happens to be the exact same man Erik took for interrogation?

“Charles Xavier,” Barboza says, after he’s taken a sip of wine. “I’m surprised Lehnsherr actually sent you over, he’s notorious for not sharing his toys.”

“Mr. Lehnsherr sends his regards,” Charles answers smoothly. He flicks his gaze up once to meet Barboza’s as deferentially as he can, and then focuses on a point somewhere to the left of his face. Chavez is staring at Charles openly, but he doesn’t say a word.

“Of course he does,” Barboza says with a wide, amused smile. He gestures to the booth. “Sit, sit, Mr. Xavier—or should I say _Dr._ Xavier, Professor of Genetics?”

Charles sits down on the bench beside Chavez. He doesn’t intend to scoot very far in, but then Creed shoves his way in, forcing Charles to slide quickly sideways to avoid having to touch Creed at all. He ends up sandwiched between Creed and Chavez, stuck directly across from Barboza. Chavez, at least, shrinks away from Charles as much as possible—Charles can see he’s shaking—but Creed sprawls his legs out wide, taking up much more space than he actually needs to. His knee rests against Charles’, and unless Charles wants to sit halfway into Chavez’s lap, there’s no way to avoid contact with Creed.

“Dr. Xavier is sufficient,” Charles answers, his voice level. Even Erik had prepped him for Barboza digging into his life and discovering his profession. Charles had balked at first, because while Erik will never hold Charles’ dual lifestyle over his head, there’s a fairly large chance Barboza would have no qualms disrupting Charles’ normal life. There’s nothing for it, however; there’s no way Erik could have Charles’ career completely buried.

“What is a college professor doing working for the mob?” Barboza asks. He cuts another piece of steak and dips it in his sauce, popping it into his mouth and chewing while studying Charles intently.

“Telepaths are a commodity,” Charles says, “as you are aware. Mr. Lehnsherr learned about my talents and approached me with a deal.”

“Money, then?” Barboza’s eyes glitter in the candlelight. “I was under the impression your relationship wasn’t so clear-cut, Dr. Xavier. I can’t imagine money is the only thing holding you back from taking over Lehnsherr’s empire yourself.”

“I have little interest in running a crime syndicate, Mr. Barboza,” Charles says blandly. “Telepaths are better suited to working behind the scenes, in the shadows.” It’s a bullshit answer, but it’ll serve his purposes well enough.

“Money is all it takes, then, to buy a telepath,” Barboza says with a small laugh. He lifts his wine glass, tipping it to Charles before taking another sip. “I’ll drink to that. I was certain Lehnsherr had some other hold on you, but obviously my men could find nothing. Now I know there _is_ nothing. No dirt, no debt. What an upstanding citizen you are, Dr. Xavier.” His voice is casual, but his eyes are sharp. Charles doesn’t need his telepathy to know Barboza is waiting for a reaction, for Charles to show he’s alarmed by the mob digging into his personal life.

“Boring is the term, Mr. Barboza,” Charles answers calmly, “and it’s true. My life was boring and mundane, before I began working for Mr. Lehnsherr.” He shrugs. “I was looking for the right kind of thrill, and Mr. Lehnsherr came along. Now I’m on his payroll.”

Barboza laughs again, this time a little more uproariously than before. His face is beginning to flush, turning a ruddy red in the dim light, but he takes another drink.

Charles gives a thin smile. It’s harder to rearrange his face into a pleasant expression than he thought it would be. “You’re correct, though. Mr. Lehnsherr did not need to intimidate or threaten me into working for him.”

“I’m glad to hear,” Barboza says, picking up his cutlery again. “It just makes it easier to tempt you away.”

“Are you offering me a job, Mr. Barboza?” Charles asks pleasantly, though inwardly he could sigh in relief. Barboza doesn’t know about his real relationship with Erik.

“Like you said,” Barboza says with a grin, “telepaths are a commodity.”

“Guerrero was interested, once upon a time,” Charles says lightly, pressing his palms down flat against his thighs beneath the table. Erik explicitly warned him not to fish for information, to keep his head down and his mouth shut, but Charles has never been good at following all of Erik’s rules. “Perhaps he brought it up when you spoke with him.”

Barboza finishes chewing and swallowing before he answers. “Perhaps,” he answers blandly, though as far as Charles can tell he seems more amused than annoyed. “Lehnsherr is famous for running his all-mutant operation. There are a great many rumors from a great many sources about the types of people he has on his payroll.”

“It is one of the perks, working for him,” Charles says carefully, “to be in a mutant-friendly environment. Guerrero was interested in my abilities, you see, but he was more interested in shooting me than hiring me.”

“Ah, Adrian,” Barboza says with another bland smile, shaking his head. “We are all justified to ourselves in our prejudices, are we not? I am interested in hiring you, Dr. Xavier, not clipping you. If I wanted that, you would be dead already, don’t you think?” His smile widens.

Charles merely looks levelly back, though he still doesn’t quite meet Barboza’s eyes.

“This is my gesture of goodwill,” Barboza continues. “I’m borrowing you from Lehnsherr in good faith. I’m doing him a service, and I’m also poaching his employee right out from underneath his nose. Obviously I cannot trust you at this time, you understand—” he taps his ear, where Charles can make out a small earpiece that must be the blocker, “—but once you are on my payroll, that of course will change.”

He certainly is confident, Charles thinks grimly even as he gives another superficially pleasant smile. Barboza’s talking like it’s already set in stone, like Charles doesn’t even have a choice. “I highly doubt Mr. Lehnsherr will let me go so easily.”

“There’s no need to worry,” Barboza answers. He doesn’t elaborate, and Charles doesn’t dare ask him to, even as a cold chill creeps down his spine. Barboza is more than confident. Barboza is _certain_ he won’t have to contend with Erik at all.

Barboza merely grins when Charles doesn’t say anything, and goes back to finishing his meal. Chavez is still jittery and nervous beside Charles, bouncing his leg but hunched in on himself as if expecting a blow. Charles holds himself perfectly still, ignoring how Creed continues to stare at him, and immerses himself in the dull, background thoughts of the rest of the diners in the restaurant; anything is better than the blank, empty voids surrounding him.

As time wears on, the restaurant slowly begins to empty out. Barboza takes his time with his meal, paying no further attention to Charles, Chavez, or Creed. Chavez flinches every time Barboza’s cutlery scrapes lightly across his plate, and Creed lounges back now, almost bored.

Trapped between them, Charles concentrates on breathing in and out, slow and steady. His skin is crawling, a tight, tense ball of dread forming heavily in his stomach. Something is coming, he can feel it. Barboza hasn’t gone to great lengths to get Charles sitting in the seat across from him tonight to merely eat dinner in front of him.

Eventually the restaurant is completely empty, all the customers emptied out and leaving a heavy silence broken only by soft string music playing over the speakers. The waitstaff cleans the dining room swiftly and efficiently, wiping down surfaces and lifting up chairs onto tables, and Charles can feel their desire to get home, their nervous apprehension about the group still sitting in the back corner. None of them approach. None of them so much as dare to look over.

The man who owns the restaurant, the only person who has come to Barboza’s table all evening to bring Barboza’s courses and refills on wine, slides up now. He’s nervous too, Charles can tell, but he holds himself much better than the rest of his staff. He’s used to having Barboza here, in the same way a farmer is used to having a bull in one pasture.

“Can I get you anything else this evening, sir?” he asks politely, even though he’s thinking about the chef who wants to go home and the dishwashers who have already been paid enough overtime this week.

Barboza pushes his dessert plate back, dropping his linen napkin on top. “Excellent as always, Mr. Rossi,” he says pleasantly. “You may leave us.”

“Of course, sir,” Rossi says, ducking his head a little as he scoops the plate and empty wine glass off the table. “Have a good evening.” He doesn’t quite hurry away, but nevertheless disappears back into the kitchen quickly, the double doors swinging shut with a soft snap.

Without his telepathy Charles has no way to anticipate what’s coming next, and as it is he’s barely able to keep from flinching when Creed moves without warning, swinging his legs around and standing up from the booth, stretching out his back with a loud pop. At the other table, the other thugs are getting up too, so Charles takes that as his cue to move as well, quickly scooting over on the bench. Fortunately Creed’s moved away a couple steps so Charles has enough room to stand, climbing to his feet at the same time Barboza does across the table.

“Well, Dr. Xavier, you must be wondering why I’ve brought you here tonight,” Barboza drawls as his men span out around the empty dining room. “I admit I don’t know very much about how your telepathy works, so I decided we might run a little test before we get down to business over the next few nights.”

“I’m happy to answer any questions you might have, Mr. Barboza,” Charles says evenly, but his heart is pounding.

“I was never one for boring lectures, Professor, you’ll have to forgive me,” Barboza replies, amused. “I’m more of a hands-on learner, personally. Seeing is believing, and all that.”

“I cannot demonstrate my powers on people who are wearing telepathic blockers,” Charles says carefully, hoping his voice doesn’t come out strained. Behind him, he hears Creed drag Chavez to his feet, pulling him roughly over to the center of the room.

“Of course not,” Barboza says with a smile, and Creed pushes Chavez down to his knees and yanks Chavez’s blocker out of his ear.

Charles has to grip the edge of the closest table next to him to keep from staggering back as Chavez’s mind swamps him, surging forward in a tidal wave of fear. There’s nothing coherent, his thoughts blank with panic, taking in his surroundings in flashes as he desperately searches for an escape route, looking for some kind of hope. Charles bites down on the inside of his mouth as he forcibly pulls himself back, reeling in his telepathy from where it’d been sprawled out listlessly without any nearby minds to read.

“So, Dr. Xavier.” Barboza steps up beside Charles, laying a heavy hand on his shoulder. It takes all of Charles’ might not to twist away from the touch. “You said your powers work best in close proximity. What can you do?”

“I can freeze him in place,” Charles says through his teeth. Standing over Chavez, Creed leers at Charles with a smirk.

“Do it.”

Charles takes in a slow breath, and reaches forward with his telepathy. Freezing Chavez is simple; it’s always been an easy trick, one he’s been able to do ever since his telepathy first manifested. Charles holds Chavez in place, leaving him in control of his own eyesight and breathing but otherwise his body suddenly goes unnaturally still, and a couple of Barboza’s other men watching mutter curses.

Barboza prowls forward, his hand sliding off of Charles’ shoulder. “Fascinating. Can he still hear and see me?”

“Yes,” Charles answers, but doesn’t elaborate. Holding Chavez in place is laughably easy—the man has no telepathic resistance training—but Charles tries to look like he’s concentrating hard, like he’s not as powerful as he really is. He still doesn’t read Chavez’s thoughts, though he’s undeniably afraid, his fear pouring off him like radiation.

“And you can read his mind like this?”

“Yes.”

“How much?”

Thrown a little, Charles blinks. “I can read his surface thoughts, what he’s thinking right now. I can also go through any recent memories.”

“How far back can you go?” Barboza asks, circling Chavez and Creed slowly. Chavez’s fear spikes to a new high as soon as Barboza is out of his direct line of sight, rattling against Charles’ mental grip on him like hail in a storm.

“A week,” Charles lies. He can feel a single drop of sweat rolling slowly down his spine beneath his suit and the metal of his vest. Chavez’s fear is only serving to magnify his own, at the close mental distance they have, and he can feel his own hands are beginning to tremble. “Anything further back is too deep. I’m not powerful enough to reach.”

“Pity,” Barboza says absently, coming to a stop directly behind Chavez. “I have my suspicious, you see, that Mr. Chavez here has been...selling information, shall we say, to my business competitors over the past few weeks. He has a lot of conflicting stories about his whereabouts that I just cannot allow to go unquestioned.”

Charles’ mouth is dry. “I don’t see anything noteworthy in his memory of the past week.”

“I see.” Barboza’s gaze is unreadable as it lifts to Charles’ face. “One more thing, Dr. Xavier.”

“Yes?” Charles asks, his entire body taut as a wire.

Barboza’s eyes flicks once to Creed, and without any further warning Creed pulls out a gun and shoots Chavez point-blank in the head.

It’s over in a flash, Chavez’s mind extinguishing like a candle in the wind. But Charles is still mentally connected to him and he’s unable to stop the half-scream that bursts out as he’s half-dragged downwards towards cold oblivion, his entire mind nearly ripping in half as he scrambles to tear himself free. His knees have buckled, his knuckle-white grip on the table the only thing still keeping him standing, vision swimming as he tries to reorder his head and the tailspin his mind has been sent into, everything jumbled and confused.

He’s barely aware of Barboza watching him with clinical interest, and of Creed nearly leaning forward with something sickeningly eager on his face, Chavez’s body and the mess of blood and brain matter forgotten and ignored on the floor.

And that’s what does it, finally—the smell of blood, thick in the air and too much in the enclosed space of the restaurant dining room, sends Charles’ stomach roiling, and before he can stop himself or hold himself in check Charles is half-running towards the door, mind still spinning dizzily as he staggers through the tables and chairs.

He barely makes it outside the door before he leans over and vomits.

 

*

 

The wait is maddening.

Erik sits by the phone and waits for a call, either from Bishop or from Charles. It’s agonizing, sitting here in his polished office, knowing his people are out there and in danger. It’s equally agonizing to imagine what Barboza is doing now with Charles, what he might have already _done_. It’s been five hours since Charles left. Five hours and no contact at all.

He’s busy, Erik tells himself, lacing his fingers together and squeezing them. Of course Barboza must be keeping Charles occupied; it’d be a waste of the night if he didn’t put Charles to work on…whatever it is he needs Charles for. Whatever he’s doing, Charles must not have the time or attention to spare to check in with Erik. And that’s fine—that’s _good_ , actually. The last thing Erik wants to do is distract Charles in the middle of something delicate. But still, he wishes he could feel Charles’ mind brushing against his in gentle reassurance. He’s far too keyed up and restless as it is.

He nearly jumps out of his skin when the phone rings. The receiver is out of its cradle before the first ring has even ended, and Erik bites out, “Yes?”

“It’s done,” comes Bishop’s deep voice.

Free hand clenched into a fist on his desk, Erik says, “Casualties?”

“All but two of Guerrero’s men. We kept the leader alive, figured you’d want to talk to him. The other one jumped off the docks into the water. Alex and the others are going fishing now.”

“And our people?”

“No injuries.”

Erik lets out a soft breath. They eliminated Guerrero’s reinforcements, captured one of his lieutenants, and suffered no casualties themselves. On any other night, he might have been enormously pleased at the fact. But tonight, the victory feels hollow. All he can think about now is Charles.  

“Good work,” he says. “Pack it up.”

“And the scene?”

“Leave it.” It’ll make for an unmistakable message. Besides, leaving the bodies out in the open will have police swarming the area by the morning. The thought of throwing official scrutiny on Guerrero’s operation gives Erik a sharp pang of satisfaction.

“Yes, sir.”

Erik puts the phone down harder than he actually means to. He lasts about another three seconds, and then he’s on his feet, propelling himself up out of his chair and finally giving in to the urge to pace, prowling back and forth in front of his wide window. Now that he’s heard from Bishop, Erik doesn’t have to worry about the operation at the docks. All he has left to focus on is Charles.

As soon as Charles stepped out the elevator, Erik knew immediately they were making a mistake. It had taken all his might not to yank Charles backwards by the metal vest wrapped around his torso into the elevator and seal the doors shut, keeping Charles close, where Erik could absolutely guarantee his safety. It was stupid to let him go.

In an hour, Erik’s people will be back. They’ll give their reports and Erik will have to lay out their next strategy, for what they’ll do while they wait and prepare for whatever Guerrero’s reaction will be. Erik will have to deal with the captured men.

He should’ve pressed for an exact return time, should have established he was only willing to loan Charles out for three, four-hour blocks. Then Erik would at least have a definite idea of how long he’d have to wait before assuming the worst.

He’s already assuming the worst. He can’t shake the helplessly terrifying feeling Creed put a bullet in Charles’ head as soon as they were across the Brooklyn Bridge. Erik knows how Creed operates, knows him well from the days when Shaw ruled the city. He knows what Creed likes to do with his trophy kills.

The phone rings, piercing in the silence, and Erik’s across the room in a second. “Yes?”

“Car passed the checkpoint,” Blink says. “I have eyes on Charles in the backseat.”

Every muscle in Erik’s body goes weak, his relief so potent he actually walks back around his desk on wobbly legs and sinks into his chair. “Meet them at the curb.”

“Yes sir.” There’s a click when she hangs up.

Erik throws the phone down again, and in the privacy of his office he allows himself to release one long, shaky breath. Charles is alive.

Blink is stationed five blocks down from Erik’s building. It will take her half a second to get back to the front doors, but it will take the town car closer to twenty minutes. Erik takes the time to try and compose himself, trying not to wonder what the hell has happened to him in the past three years, to where he’d lost all sense of his once unshakable demeanor. He already knows the answer. Charles happened, for better or for worse.

Twenty minutes feels more like an hour, but then at last Erik feels a car slide out of traffic and pull to a stop directly in front of the building. He gets to his feet, trying not to start pacing again. If Creed shoots Charles at the last second, right on Erik’s doorstep…

The air ripples, a seamless hole opening and expanding large enough for a person to fit through in the blink of an eye, and then Charles is there, stepping directly from the lobby downstairs into Erik’s office.

Erik goes to him at once, folding Charles into his arms just in time to catch him, Charles all but collapsing into Erik’s hold. He’s white as a sheet, and his telepathy is frazzled at the edges as he slides into Erik’s mind, clumsy where he’s normally smooth.

“Charles,” Erik says as the portal closes behind him, leaving them safely alone in Erik’s office, “what happened?” His hands rove all over Charles’ body restlessly, seeking out damage, checking for injury. But there’s no blood, no visible wounds. Outwardly, he seems fine. Inwardly is another story.

For a long, agonizing moment, Charles doesn’t say anything. Then, his voice muffled into Erik’s shoulder, he says, “Can we sit down?”

“Yeah. Of course.”

After a moment, he realizes Charles can’t quite stand on his own, so he shuffles them both over to the couch and pulls Charles down onto it and into his arms. Charles’ fingers tighten around the front of Erik’s suit jacket as he curls into Erik’s hold, trembling. Frightened, Erik rubs his hand soothingly up and down Charles’ arm, wanting desperately to know what happened but afraid to ask.

He’s prepared to sit there in silence for as long as Charles needs, but it’s only a couple of minutes before Charles says, “I’m okay.”

Erik barely restrains a disbelieving laugh. “You are not.”

“I mean…” Charles lets out a shuddering breath. “I mean, Barboza didn’t hurt me. No one did.”

“Then…what happened?”

Clearly reluctant to move, Charles turns his face so that he’s no longer speaking into Erik’s shoulder. “Chavez—Barboza’s man, do you remember?”

Erik has to take a second to think back. It all seems so long ago now; anything that happened before the chopper ambush feels like another age. Eventually he recalls the name, then the face. “The one we captured. The one who talked.”

“Yes.” Charles’ breath hitches. “They killed him. Right in front of me. They made me go into his head and then they—they shot him and I felt every second of it. It was like _I_ was dying and I couldn’t stop it from happening. I couldn’t—”

He makes a sudden, awful gagging noise, and Erik freezes. When his brain finally starts working again, when it stops running in circles in a panic because he’s _never_ heard Charles sound sick like this before, he uses his powers to drag the metal wastebasket over from underneath his desk and holds it out to Charles, who turns to grip the rim of it and bends over. Nothing comes up though; he just dry heaves for a minute, his fingers white-knuckled around the bin.

Stricken, Erik rubs his back tentatively, wondering what the hell he’s supposed to be doing to help. _That_ , Charles says in reply, eyes shut. _That helps._

So Erik strokes his hand across Charles’ back more firmly, rubbing his palm against the tense muscles of Charles’ shoulders in slow, smooth circles. Gradually, the tension in Charles’ back eases, but the nauseated feeling is still there, lingering on their mental connection. When Charles stops gagging and just leans against the wastebasket, his face wan and tired, Erik asks softly, “Are you alright?”

Charles gives him a pained smile. “I threw up twice with Barboza. I think my stomach’s about done for the night.”

Erik fights down the swell of protective fury. Charles needs him to be calm right now, not raging. “I’m not talking about your stomach. Are _you_ okay?”

His motions careful, Charles slowly sits up, setting the wastebasket down by his feet. He leans into Erik again, resting his head on Erik’s shoulder. _Let me just—_

_Anything_ , Erik answers, shifting so he’ll be more comfortable for Charles to lean against and getting his arm around Charles’ shoulders to hold onto him. He feels Charles slide fully into his head, and it feels not unlike Erik has just submerged himself in a hot bath. Charles has only done this once or twice with him before, come all the way in, and Erik thinks it should scare him, how willing he is to let Charles sink down inside him, and yet it doesn’t. Not at all.

_That’s better_ , Charles thinks, slow with lethargic contentment. Erik leaves his mind open, a fortress with all its doors unlocked, trusting Charles to stay out of memories he’d rather not see.

Slowly, Charles’ body is starting to relax. Erik reaches over with his other arm and gets to work on Charles’ rumpled suit jacket, undoing the buttons and then tugging at the vest with his powers while he carefully pulls Charles’ tie loose. Erik slides the metal off him and sends it over to rest on his desk, reformed in its original shape. Charles sighs in relief, curling forward even more now that he’s less restricted, and Erik is happy to take him, pulling Charles the rest of the way into his lap.

_Much better_ , Charles whispers somewhere in a distant corner of Erik’s mind, and Erik presses a small kiss against Charles’ temple.

They sit together in silence for awhile, breathing even and deep. The day seems to have caught up with Erik at last and suddenly he’s exhausted, after a sleepless night last night and a tense day spent agonizing over the dock raid and nearly going out of his mind about Charles, and he feels like he could fall asleep right where he sits. He can feel Charles flitting lightly through his most recent memories, sending relief as he learns the raid went well and no one was hurt.

“You have to tell me what else happened,” Erik says eventually, even though his eyes are only half-cracked open, whole body slouching on the couch. “Why did they shoot Chavez while you were in his mind?”

“It was a test,” Charles says, his voice distant. Erik can feel his reluctance as he begins to slowly extract himself little by little from Erik’s mind. “Barboza wanted to see how much it would affect me. They didn’t give me any warning.”

Erik takes a breath when his anger spikes up again, coming a little more awake with the desire to send a pipe through Barboza’s chest. Dreamily slow, Charles lifts his arm and slides his hand back around Erik’s neck, carding his fingers soothingly through Erik’s hair. It feels better than Erik wants to admit.

“Why a test?” Erik asks, his voice still hard. “We already explained your powers to him.”

“Apparently he needs to see to believe,” Charles says, faintly dry. His voice is scratchy, hoarse with exhaustion.

Erik wants nothing more than to take Charles home, undress him, and get him wrapped up warm and safe in blankets in their bed, but before they do that he needs to know. “Why Chavez? Did Barboza know he talked?”

“I don’t know,” Charles admits. “After we left here, they took me to a restaurant in Brooklyn. Barboza was there. He and everyone in his bodyguard detail were wearing blockers. Even Chavez had one on at first, during dinner. Only Creed didn’t, but I stayed away from his mind.”

“And then?”

Eyes still closed, Charles huffs out a small sigh. A moment later a memory unfurls in Erik’s mind, playing like a video. Erik watches the events of Charles’ evening played out, absorbing every word Barboza said and gritting his teeth at how long Charles had to sit there and sweat it out, Charles’ nervous apprehension leaving a bitter taste in Erik’s mouth. Charles stops the memory right as Creed pulls a gun on a kneeling Chavez.

_You don’t want to experience that_ , he thinks, and Erik sends him wordless agreement. He doesn’t want Charles to have to relive it.

“And then Barboza sent you back?”

“Mm.” Charles’ hand drags through Erik’s hair one last time before falling limp, too tired to continue. “He said he’d be in touch with you tomorrow.”

“I’m sure.” Erik doesn’t doubt it. Barboza will have to face Guerrero first once he catches wind of the slaughter at the docks, and then he’ll come to Erik with new information. Supposedly. “Are you alright, Charles?”

Charles cracks an eye open, peering up at him blearily. “I’m fine.”

Erik stares back. In the past three days alone Charles has been shot at by a machine gun in a helicopter in the middle of the street and now had to witness a man being shot dead right in front of him while still attached to his mind. It’s hard for Erik to fathom Charles, neutral, peace-loving Charles, being able to stomach everything so calmly.

“There’s nothing left in my stomach as it is,” Charles answers Erik’s thoughts aloud, “and I already promised you. I’m not going anywhere.”

Erik tips his head down, resting his forehead against Charles’ in lieu of answering. Charles is warm and solid and alive in his arms, which is comforting enough on its own. But it’s been—not a fear, fear is too strong of a word for it, but a small, niggling worry lurking on the periphery of Erik’s mind ever since Charles officially became his that one day Charles would be driven away at last by the uglier side of the mob, wouldn’t be able to stand associating with it any longer and would leave Erik once and for all.

_You’re ridiculous,_ Charles says, but there’s warm albeit weary fondness in his tone. _I stay because of you. You’re a good man, Erik. You do more for the mutant community than most of the completely-above-the-board nonprofits alone. You’re part of the mob, and you enjoy the status and influence it gives you, but you don’t revel in killing. You also bought me a dog, though, so maybe I’m biased._

Erik doesn’t feel up to laughing, but he makes sure Charles catches his flash of amusement. _As long as you’re happy_ , he thinks, quieter, nearly deep down enough to be a subconscious thought, _as long as you’re okay._

_We’re okay,_ Charles answers simply, and aloud he says, “Take me home, please.”

“I have to wait until my team gets back,” Erik tells him, even as he summons his cell phone to his hand in order to text Janos to have the car ready, “and then we’ll go.”

All he needs to do is check in briefly with Bishop, and hear his final verbal report. Bishop is good about keeping things short, and as for Guerrero’s men...Erik will give them to Angel for the night. Odds are she’ll have them cracked by dawn, and Erik will have all the information he’ll need—and if he’s lucky, it’ll be more than whatever Barboza will deign to tell him.

It should take Guerrero a solid 24 hours to regroup from tonight as it is, so Erik won’t have to worry about anything major happening until tomorrow night, when he’ll also have to be worrying about Charles’ second night out with Barboza. Erik will have all day to prepare.

“Just think,” Charles says sleepily, obviously listening in, “only at least two more weeks of this.”

“The goal is to clip Guerrero as soon as possible,” Erik says flatly, putting his phone back down after he’s shot off a text. “I’m hoping to draw him out to where we can nab him, because as soon as I take care of him, I no longer need Barboza and you’ll no longer be on loan.”

Charles makes a small noise of agreement, his telepathy heavy in Erik’s head as it always is when Charles is well on his way to dropping off to sleep, exhaustion winning at last. Erik should put him down, and let Charles lie on the couch while Erik heads down to meet his team.

But it’s comforting, to just sit here for another minute longer. He’ll get up in a moment. Just another moment.

 


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes at the end of the chapter contain relevant warnings (slightly spoilery) for anyone who needs them!

 

“Tell me you have good news,” Erik greets Angel bluntly as soon as she steps into his office early the next morning. He’s glad he felt her coming down the hallway by the studs in her ears, or otherwise she would’ve caught him with his head down on the polished wood of his desk.

He actually caught a few hours of sleep last night, pulled down into a blissful lull of unconsciousness by Charles’ telepathy, but somewhere around 3am Charles woke them both up with a nightmare, the telepathic backlash strong enough to make even Rosie howl.

Neither of them had felt much like going back to sleep after that. They’d relocated out to the living room, with a mindless cop drama series on Netflix. Erik had put together sandwiches for a meal since Charles had been ravenous, the pangs of an empty stomach larger than his overall lack of appetite, and they’d eaten on the couch with Rosie sitting in front of them, hopeful for scraps. Charles dozed off again sometime around 5:30, and Erik almost hadn’t wanted to wake him again at 7:00 when it’d been time for Charles to get up for class.

Erik hadn’t gone back to sleep at all, sitting with Charles leaned heavily against him and Rosie sprawled across their laps. More and more often these days, he finds himself wishing often that they could stay like this forever, just the three of them. He honestly can’t imagine a better place to be than right there on that couch with Charles and their dog—the family of his own making.

Soft. He’s gone entirely soft, and he’s not sure he’s as bothered by it as he should be.

“Good and bad,” Angel answers, sinking down into one of the chairs across from Erik. She looks tired too, her wings nearly invisible where they’re folded down against her back. “What do you want first?”

“Bad,” Erik says immediately.

“The two we caught aren’t really Guerrero’s,” Angel answers, tapping her nails against the armrest of her chair slowly. “They’re only mercenary-types like Creed.”

“Don’t tell me the good news is this is why they cracked easily.”

Angel quirks a faint grin. “That’s part of it, yes, they _did_ crack quickly because they don’t have any true loyalty to Guerrero other than waiting on their next paycheck from him. But it also means Guerrero is pretty much living on borrowed time and his benefactor’s good will if he’s got no one left from his old syndicate.”

“And?” Erik already knows Guerrero’s old syndicate is gone; he dismantled it himself when Guerrero skipped town after shooting Charles six months ago.

“And he’s definitely using Barboza,” Angel says, a small hint of triumph sneaking into her voice. “His deal with Barboza is to use him as a gateway back into the city in exchange for smuggling in weapons. Once Guerrero has a strong enough foothold to take us on, he’s planning on crushing Barboza like a fly. So it makes sense, for Barboza to have approached you with a deal. He was smart enough to catch on that Guerrero plans to wipe him out once he’s better established. But at least now we can know for sure that it’s not a ploy Barboza is running with Guerrero. He really does need you—us—to do the dirty work.”

“Keep squeezing them,” Erik says after a small pause, taking all this information in carefully, “we need to know what Guerrero’s really got on Barboza, because Barboza’s already running plenty of gun smuggling operations. Chavez told us that much.” Chavez, whose death Charles had unintentionally projected into Erik’s head as a result of his nightmare at 3am this morning. Erik still feels a cold, hollow ache in his mind. “We need to know who Guerrero’s benefactor is.”

It all comes back to the unknown quantity, the benefactor. Barboza is clearly afraid of them, but Erik can’t risk pushing Barboza for more answers, not when it could mean the difference between Charles ending up with a bullet in his head or not. But if they could just find out who’s backing Guerrero…

“We’ll work on it,” Angel promises.

Erik nods in dismissal and boots up his computer with a flick of his fingers. When he doesn’t hear the door open, he looks back up to see Angel standing in the doorway, hesitant.

“Spit it out,” he says with a frown. Angel usually has no qualms about speaking her mind.

“I…just wanted to say that we’ll handle it,” Angel says. “We’ll find out what Guerrero’s planning, I mean.”

Erik starts to say, “Of course, that’s your job,” but Angel adds quickly, “So you focus on keeping the Prof safe, okay? Because…” She shrugs, clearly embarrassed. “You know…”

Erik does know, he knows what Charles means to all of them, but he quirks his eyebrow anyway. “Know…?”

Harrumphing, Angel yanks the door open, evidently done with being maudlin. “It would just really fucking suck if he died, okay? I’ll call you as soon as we have something, boss.”

Then she leaves, but the thoughts of Charles linger, annoyingly enough. Once upon a time, Erik could sit at this desk and think of nothing but business, business, business for hours on end. Now he can hardly go a full conversation without thinking of Charles, without wondering what Charles would advise, without considering how Charles might react. It’s irritating, but what can he do about it? There’s nothing he _would_ do about it if he could.

Charles calls around lunchtime, which provides a welcome break from a tiresome morning of going over the details of last night’s raid of the dock and monitoring the police response. “I have a question,” Charles says when Erik picks up. “How do you feel about my taking you out to dinner someplace fancy on Saturday evening?”

Erik’s momentarily thrown by the subject. It’s so mundane, so far removed from everything _mob_ that it takes Erik a moment to work out what Charles is saying. When he does, he lets out a soft scoff. “ _You_ want to take _me_ out?”

“You always pay,” Charles says. “Let me treat you for once. It’s not as if I’m financially struggling.”

No, he most certainly is not. Charles’ inherited fortune could easily run a syndicate of his own, if he were so inclined. Erik leans back in his seat and props his feet up on his desk, holding his phone to his ear with a tendril of power. “But I like treating you.”

“I know you do, darling, but indulge me for once, will you?”

“Alright,” Erik says, a bit warily. Charles sounds…cheerful. A far cry from how wrecked he’d sounded last night. “If you want.”

“I just think,” Charles continues, “it would be nice to go out, just the two of us. Do something normal in the middle of all this—all this—” Now his voice cracks slightly, and Erik’s hand clenches into a fist on his thigh. “—all this _lunacy_ ,” Charles finishes finally, his voice strained. “Alright?”

“Alright,” Erik says softly. “Whatever you want.”

For a long moment, Charles says nothing. Erik hears only the soft sounds of his breathing, nearly inaudible through the phone. Then he says at last, “Thank you.”

Charles sounds so tired and small. Erik wants nothing more than to track Barboza down and break both his legs for doing this to Charles, for making him experience something he should never have seen, for giving him nightmares that make him wake shaking in the middle of the night. Once this is over, he promises himself. Once he no longer needs Barboza, the man will _pay_.

“You’ll send Alex again?” Charles asks after a while. “To escort me after class?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” Charles takes a long, steadying breath. “Only two weeks of this,” he says reassuringly. Erik isn’t sure if he’s trying to reassure Erik or himself. “We’ll be alright.”

Erik closes his eyes and prays he’s right. “We will.”

 

*

 

After Charles’ last late afternoon class, he returns to his office to find Alex already standing inside, poking at the books on his floor-to-ceiling bookshelf by the window. When he hears Charles come in, he says without turning to look, “Hey, Prof, how do you find anything in here? It’s a fucking mess.”

“It’s not _that_ bad,” Charles protests, dumping his lecture notes onto his desk. “I have a system.”

Alex eyes the stacks of papers on the floor. “Sure.”

“There _is_ ,” Charles insists, rolling his eyes. Erik never believes him either. After shoving a couple of folders into his satchel, he straightens and takes a deep breath. “Alright. Ready when you are.”

Alex’s gaze flickers across him as if he knows just how opposite of ready Charles really feels, but he merely lifts a shoulder in a shrug. “Let’s blow this popsicle joint.”

Just like yesterday, Charles and Alex leave the building together and make their way off campus. Fortunately they don’t run into Hank this time, as he and most of everyone else has already left, eager for the weekend. Trusting Alex to be vigilant, Charles barely looks up as they walk. Another night with Barboza. Another night of waiting on tenterhooks, bracing for whatever unpredictable thing Barboza throws at him next.

You signed up for this, Charles reminds himself firmly as they cross the street, cutting down a quieter side road towards the limo waiting further down. It’s a mantra he’s been repeating all day to himself. He volunteered for this, and while no one could predict what Barboza needs him for, Charles still agreed knowing he’d be getting himself into situations like this.

It’s only been one night, and Charles is exhausted. All he wants to do is go home, change out of his work clothes, and curl up in bed with Erik and Rosie. Instead he has another long night ahead before he can even think of getting rest. At least it’s Friday night, and Charles has Saturday to look forward to. He’s already called their favorite restaurant and made reservations, so Erik won’t have to do a thing. A little bit of normalcy is going to be just what they need.

They’re only fifty feet or so away from Erik’s limo when a taxi pulls up alongside the curb. Charles sidesteps to give the person in the back room to open their door and get out, but as he steps around the door a hand shoots out and digs painfully into his arm, and before Charles can even react he’s yanked into the back of the cab with a painful wrench, and Alex lets out a shout.

“Drive!” a voice shouts in Charles’ ear, and then the taxi’s wheels squeal as the car accelerates and takes off down the street.

“What’s going on?” Charles demands, struggling to sit up, only to be pushed back down as someone leans across him and yanks the door shut again.

“Stay down,” the voice snaps, and then a second later the car takes a sharp left, crushing Charles back against the dirty seat as they avoid a huge blast of plasma energy.

“What the fuck!” someone shouts from the front seat, angry and afraid as the car bounces along, everything outside the window a blur. “You said they might have guns, not that they were mutie _freaks_ —”

Charles hears the click of a safety. “I didn’t ask for your opinions on mutants,” the first voice says, pleasant but dangerous, “so just fucking drive.”

Charles pushes himself up, readying his telepathy as he turns to face his kidnapper, preparing to strike, to freeze them in place so he can—

“Raven?” he asks blankly, thrown completely off-guard.

Raven tosses him a grin, even as she holds a gun steadily to the back of the cab driver’s head while peering out the back window for signs of pursuit. “Hello, Charles.”

“Raven,” Charles repeats, still not quite comprehending what he’s seeing. His sister is here. His sister is here in New York, in this cab. “Is that a _gun_?” It’s not the real question he wants to ask, but it’s the first thing that blurts out of his mouth in shock.

“Yes, Charles, it’s a gun,” Raven says, rolling her eyes. “I fly all the way here to rescue you and all I get is a lecture. I should have known.”

“It was a question, not a lecture,” Charles answers defensively. “And _rescue_ me? From _what?_ ”

Raven raises an eyebrow. “I know a lecture is close to follow. But really, you need me to spell it out? I was fairly certain you already know the kind of shit you’re in, going by your email, so I hardly think I need to explain but just in case, I just stopped you from getting shot in the face by Erik Lehnsherr. You’re welcome.”

“Why would Erik want to—?” Charles starts to ask, mystified, but then his brain finally catches up. “Oh no.”

“What?” Raven asks, glancing at him briefly.

“Raven, put the gun down,” Charles says very, very calmly.

“I’m not actually going to shoot him, you know,” Raven answers, rolling her eyes again, “I just find a gun is usually an effective way to threaten cab drivers into breaking all the laws of the road so I could save your ungrateful ass.”

“This isn’t about the cab driver,” Charles says, reaching back with his telepathy at the same time, “just put the gun down. Now.”

“Why?”

“Because,” Charles says, his voice rising as his patience runs out, “I don’t want Erik to shoot _you_ in the face when he—”

A black SUV barrels out of a side street in front of them, cutting them off. The taxi driver lets out a slew of curses, slamming on the breaks and scrabbling desperately at the wheel, and Charles is slammed against the seat in front of him as the car begins to spin. Raven is shouting something, the driver is screaming, and Charles is still trying to find—

The car comes to an abrupt, ominous halt.

_Erik_ , Charles sends, relieved, _Erik, I’m fine, it’s alright, it’s—_

All four of the taxi’s doors are ripped off at once, sent flying. Raven hisses out a curse, diving sideways and latching onto Charles’ arm again just as he feels himself being tugged backwards, yanked out of the car by the metal cuff on his other arm along with his belt buckle. Erik must not have been compensating for the extra weight, however, because as soon as Charles clears the doorway he and Raven collapse down on the pavement in a heap.

“I don’t think so,” he hears Raven snarl, and then she wraps one arm tightly around his waist, plastering herself against his side as he’s yanked up to his feet.

“Stop,” Charles shouts as he gets his bearings, leaning slightly against Raven. His ribs are aching, the bruise from being shot three days ago practically throbbing, but right now Charles has larger concerns. “Everyone stop!”

Erik stands twenty yards away, his expression murderous, one arm still upraised and ready to use his powers. Half a dozen of his men, Alex included, are fanned out around the ruined taxi in a wide circle, vibrating with tension and ready to move on Erik’s command. All of them are pointing guns at them—at Raven specifically, Charles realizes, and feels his blood run cold.

“Get behind me, Charles,” Raven says, her voice steely. She doesn’t sound frightened in the slightest, only focused and determined.

“No, Raven—”

“I said, get behind me!”

“Let him go,” Erik calls out coldly. He has no gun himself, but that’s immaterial; all the metal around him is his weapon, every single scrap. Raven’s _own_ gun would turn against her in an instant if Erik only thought it—but Raven doesn’t know that.

“Back off, Lehnsherr!” Raven shouts back, throwing her arm across Charles’ chest. “Back off and let us go and no one gets hurt!”

“Raven—” Charles grabs at her arm, his fingers trembling with adrenaline. “Put your gun down, please—”

“Charles, I said get _back!”_ Impatiently, she shoves at his shoulder, sending him stumbling back a step behind her, and even across the distance, he can hear Erik snarl. Erik’s intentions are clear: shoot first, ask questions later. And Erik with a gun does not miss.

He reaches out and seizes Erik’s mind before anyone can pull a trigger. _Erik, trust me please, stop this._ When he feels Erik’s mind thrashing against his, like a dog straining to be let off leash, he says sharply, _Erik,_ stop.

That, finally, breaks through the storm of anger and fear raging in Erik’s head. _I can take her out, Charles,_ he says testily. _Just don’t move_.

_Don’t you **dare** , _Charles snaps back, with enough force that Erik recoils in surprise. Aloud, he says, “Back off, all of you. And Raven, let me _go_.”

Shaking off her hand, he twists away before she can grab a hold of him again. The instant he’s free, Erik yanks him toward the SUV with a painful tug on his belt buckle and his wrist cuff, striding forward at the same time. In a flash, Erik grabs him and shoves Charles behind himself, even as Raven shouts obscenities at them, her fury powerful enough to rival Erik’s.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” Erik says to her frigidly. His grip on Charles’ forearm is tight but not painful, but Raven lets out a cry of shock as the gun in her hand crumples. “I don’t take kindly to to attacks on my people.”

“ _Your_ people? Charles isn’t yours, you fucking psycho!”

“Actually,” Charles says loudly. When both their eyes flick over to him, he says, “Raven, this isn’t what you think. And Erik, for god’s sake, tell everyone to put their guns down.”

For a long moment, they simply stare at him. Then, grudgingly, Erik nods, and his men lower their weapons, though tension and wariness still thrum through their minds.

Raven’s eyes widen. “Charles…?”

He can already feel the beginnings of a headache throbbing behind his eyes. “Okay, here’s what’s going to happen. Erik, you and your men are going to get back into that SUV and drive back to your office. Raven and I will follow in a cab.” He glances at the ruined taxi and the cowering driver in the front seat. “ _Another_ cab.”

Erik’s eyes narrow. “I’m not leaving you with _her_.”

There’s an undercurrent of strain in his voice, and Charles realizes all at once what he should have seen from the moment Raven uttered Erik’s name: Erik knows Raven, and Raven knows Erik in return. They _know_ each other.

His head spins. “You’re getting in that bloody SUV if I have to make you do it,” he manages. “And Raven, get a cab. We’re following them.”

“Into his _headquarters?”_ Raven hisses. “Charles, you don’t know who he is. You don’t know what he _does_.”

“Right now,” he says sharply, “I don’t even know what _you_ do. So do me a favor and hail a goddamned cab while I deal with— _this_.”

He shakes his arm loose from Erik’s grip and waves a hand at the street, and both Raven and Erik seem to realize simultaneously that they’re standing in the middle of a busy New York street, and that dozens of people are staring at them, while others run in panic for shelter.

“Shit,” Erik mutters. “Charles?”

“Go,” he orders. “I’ll take care of this.” He’ll blur the incident in their minds, make it hard for them to remember. It’ll tax him to reach out to so many people, but he can do it. No doubt the police has already been called, but once they arrive, there won’t be anything to see. Nothing but a non-fatal car accident, hopefully.

Still, Erik hesitates. “Charles—”

“Do you trust me?”

“Of course. But she’s—” He pauses.

“My sister,” Charles supplies.

“So I gathered when you called her ‘Raven.’ But she’s not who you think she is, and I don’t want you alone with her.” Erik’s hand flexes, and so does the band around Charles’ wrist. “I don’t.”

“Fine.”

“Fine?” Raven echoes testily.

“Fine, you can ride in the cab with us,” Charles continues. “And the two of you are going to tell me what the _hell_ is going on.”

 

*

 

“Let me get this straight,” Charles says from where he’s lying on the couch nursing his headache. It’s so bad Erik can feel it pressing against his own mind, a dull throb that he wishes he could smooth away for Charles like Charles does so often for him. “Raven, your ‘international banking business’ is actually a criminal black market—”

“One of the largest internationally,” Erik interjects. He’s sitting in the chair behind his desk rather than on the couch with Charles like he’d wanted to. Mystique had strongly objected—in the form of a knife pressed to Erik’s gut—to his coming near Charles. He’d only humored her because Charles would probably have taken exception to Erik turning his sister’s knife against her.

Now, Charles sends him an exasperated look that says, _You’re_ not _helping._ “One of the _largest_ internationally,” he continues, agitated, “and you fence stolen goods valued in the _millions_ and up. _And_ you also run part of a smuggling ring in Eastern Europe, you’re a part-time con-artist, and you once stole a—a—”

“A Rembrandt,” Mystique fills in, _far_ too casually. “It was ugly, but you should have seen what it sold for.”

“It’s hanging in the back office of a cartel boss in Guadalajara,” Erik says. When Charles shoots him an ugly look, Erik shrugs. “In case you were wondering.”  

“I was _not_ wondering, thank you,” Charles replies sharply. “What I _am_ wondering is how the bloody hell my boyfriend and my sister know each other.”

Mystique’s mouth thins in displeasure. “You keep calling him your boyfriend. Can we just drop the act already?”

Erik takes a nonchalant sip from his whiskey. Outwardly he’s relaxed, but his mind is prickly, like a cat that’s been rubbed the wrong way. No doubt Charles can pick up on it, but as long as Mystique doesn’t, then it’s fine. “There’s no act.”

“Oh come _on_.” Mystique leans forward in her chair and looks beseechingly at Charles. “Whatever this dirtbag’s got on you, we’ll deal with it, okay? But you don’t have to stay here a second longer if you don’t want to.”

Erik clicks his tongue. “Most people would understand that it’s bad idea to insult a man in his own territory. I’d watch your tongue if you want to keep it.”

“Erik!” Charles snaps, just as Mystique snarls, “I’d like to see you _try_.”

“But you’re right,” Erik continues, ignoring them both. “Charles doesn’t have to stay here a second longer if he doesn’t want to. He’s free to go whenever he chooses. That’s his right, as my _boyfriend._ ” The word is clumsy in his mouth.

Before Mystique can get her hackles up, Charles says quickly, “He’s not lying, Raven. Erik and I are involved. We live together. It’s entirely consensual; he didn’t manipulate me or blackmail me. Do you think I’d let him do that to me? Do you think I couldn’t stop him if I wanted to?”

“You may think that,” Mystique growls, “but I know guys like him, Charles. He’s using you, and he’s got you so wound up around his little finger you can’t see it.”

Erik scoffs. “You give your brother far too little credit.”

Mystique bares her teeth in a snarl at him. “I just know men like you, Lehnsherr. I know the lies you like to tell.”

“Enough,” Charles says sharply, pushing himself up as if to physically intervene.

“Lie down, Charles,” Erik and Mystique order at the exact same time, and Erik meets Mystique’s glare with one of his own.

Charles doesn’t look amused either, but he slowly lowers himself back down. “You know each other. Explain.”

“Everyone knows who Mystique is, if you’re in the business and know the right channels,” Erik answers when Mystique maintains a mulish silence. Normally Erik would be perfectly happy to play the tight-lipped game and refuse to speak first too—he’d _win_ —but this is Charles. He’s stressed out enough, and Erik doesn’t like how this unforeseen mess is making things worse for him. It’ll also earn Erik brownie points, if he’s cooperative while Mystique isn’t. “I’ve never met her personally until now.”

Charles sends him a look that says he knows exactly what Erik’s doing. “You’ve never mentioned her before.”

“You tend to not want to hear about the black market, Charles,” Erik says dryly. “I also kept my word and never dug into your family, so I was never able to make the connection.”

“Oh, he never dug into your past without telling you, Charles,” Mystique says mockingly, “how _charming_. It’s almost like normal people aren’t expected to do that either.”

“Raven,” Charles says wearily.

“I’ve never met Lehnsherr personally either,” Mystique says, narrowing her golden gaze on him again, “but everyone knows who he is too. While I respect—” she drags the word out between her teeth grudgingly, “—that he runs an all-mutant syndicate, it’s common knowledge he’s a two-timing asshole.”

“Shaw still has nice things to say about me, I see,” Erik says pleasantly. He takes another sip of whiskey in lieu of chucking the metal paperweight on his desk into the wall. “It was thanks in part to your brother, actually, that I was able to _two-time him_ , as the master con artist says. I would have preferred to kill him, but Shaw’s always been slippery as an eel.”

“You _work_ for this bastard?” Mystique demands, rounding on Charles at once. “You let him use you for your body _and_ your powers?”

“For god’s sake, Raven, he’s not _raping_ me,” Charles says, propelling himself up into a sitting position again, “and for you to assume so is deeply insulting to Erik and to myself. Three years ago, Shaw was in power here in New York and he had a habit of collecting mutants whether they wanted to join the mob or not. It was either be forced to work for him, or willingly partner with Erik to help usurp Shaw. I think you can understand why the choice was easy.”

“But you still work for Lehnsherr now even though Shaw is long gone.”

“I do, on occasion,” Charles admits, “but it’s always been my decision. If I say I don’t want to be on a certain job, then Erik doesn’t put me on the job.”

“I still don’t believe you,” Mystique says flatly.

_Let me handle this_ , Charles sends firmly when Erik opens his mouth. _She’s starting to come around_. “It’s the truth, Raven. I wouldn’t lie to you.”

“But you _have_ been lying to me all these years just by not telling me.”

“I could say the same for you, you know.”

Mystique scoffs. “And why would I have any reason to tell you what I do? You couldn’t even handle the fact that I didn’t want to go to college, and you expect me to want to tell you oh, by the way, I’m running a smuggling gig and breaking a slew of international laws, and that’s just _one_ of my businesses?”

“I’ve only ever wanted what’s best for you, Raven,” Charles begins, “and while smuggling isn’t what I—”

“Spare me your hypocrisy, Charles,” Mystique says venomously, “I’m not the one fucking a mob boss.”

A ringing silence follows, and Erik finds himself beginning to wish he _had_ secretly dug into Charles’ past. Charles has talked before about his sister Raven here and there in passing, and Erik had gotten the general impression they hadn’t parted well. What he hadn’t realized was they’re dysfunctional to a T.

“What brings you here now,” Erik asks, breaking the silence. He tries not to frame it too much like a demand, though he is curious. Mystique generally operates in Europe and Asia, with a little dabbling in South America but never North America. Erik is beginning to suspect Charles might be the reason. “Charles and I don’t exactly broadcast our relationship, so you can’t have originally come to _rescue_ him from me.”

The thought still rankles, that Mystique would dare come all the way into Erik’s territory and attempt to take Charles from him. Erik doesn’t think he’s ever felt his heart truly stop until he’d watched Charles being yanked into a cab right in front of him. He thought it was Barboza, or even Guerrero at first, coming to put a bullet in Charles’ head after all.

“Believe me, if I’d known _you_ were involved I would’ve come a lot sooner,” Mystique says, and Charles frowns. “It was the email. Charles mentioned Guerrero, and alarm bells started going off in my head. I’ve done various deals with him over the years, so I know he’s a grimy asshole. But anyway, I thought Charles was in some kind of trouble with Guerrero so I hopped on a plane as soon as I could and came to investigate myself.” She narrows her eyes at Erik again. “You can’t blame me for reacting the way I did when I saw Charles being ushered towards your car.”

“For his _protection_ ,” Erik says tightly, while silently he asks Charles, _You sent her an email about all this?_

_All I said was the biology department had a new donor named Adrian Guerrero_ , Charles answers, a tad defensively. _I just wanted her to know Guerrero’s name in case the worst happened. I didn’t realize she was some kind of international crime lord who would recognize the name right away and try to take matters into her own hands._

“Why does Charles need protection?” Mystique demands, folding her arms. “If you’re using Charles to wipe up your mess after you’ve been stupid enough to tangle with the likes of Guerrero…”

Charles exchanges a glance with Erik. Erik rubs the bridge of his nose wearily, gesturing with one hand to give him the goahead. Mystique obviously isn’t going to budge until she’s gotten all the answers she wants, so they might as well tell her.

“It’s become common knowledge in the city that Erik has a telepath on his payroll,” Charles says to his sister, swinging his legs around so his feet rest on the floor again. “No one outside of Erik’s organization knows it’s me, and likewise no one outside of Erik’s organization knows Erik and I are...together. But six months ago, Guerrero sent a man over to try to kill Erik, and when that obviously failed, he asked for a meeting. We went, and in the meeting Guerrero figured out I was the telepath and tried to shoot me.”

“He didn’t try,” Erik says grimly, “he _did_ shoot you.”

“That’s how you treat your boyfriend?” Mystique asks Erik acidly.

“I asked to go to the meeting,” Charles overrides her calmly before she can continue. “This is a partnership, not a boss-employee relationship. I wanted to go along as part of Erik’s detail because I didn’t like the idea of Erik going to face a man who obviously wanted to kill him. I thought my telepathy could help give an advantage. And yes, I was shot. But _obviously_ —” he says when Mystique opens her mouth, “—I’m fine now.”

_Wait till she hears about where you’re going tonight_ , Erik thinks loudly, and Charles give a soft, mental sigh.

Mystique is looking at Charles, her mouth a thin line. She shakes her head. “I don’t know what you’re playing at, Charles, getting caught up with him.” She jerks her chin towards Erik. “This isn’t like you at all. I’m still not convinced he isn’t forcing you to be here out of extortion.”

“Raven, it has been six years,” Charles says gently, “people do change. And it’s not like I planned to be involved with the mob. I originally didn’t want to at all. It just sort of...happened.” He gives a faint smile. “But how things are right now, I can live with it. Erik doesn’t make me do anything I don’t want to. It wasn’t my original ideal, but I don’t regret it.”

His gaze slides over to meet Erik’s, eyes gone soft and fond. Erik meets his gaze as he drains the last of the whiskey in his glass tumbler slowly, ignoring the way Mystique looks between them both suspiciously. He doesn’t need to prove anything to her. As long as Charles is content, and knows what Erik feels for him, it’s all Erik needs.

“And what about me?” Mystique asks after a long pause. Erik can tell she doesn’t entirely like asking this in front of him, but she’s too determined to press her point to back down now.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you,” Charles says, nothing but sincere. “But Raven, we _have_ essentially been estranged for years now. I’m sure you can understand why I didn’t want to complicate things, either, as I generally keep my relationship with Erik under wraps as it is. None of my colleagues even know I’m seeing someone. Well, except for my TA, Hank.”

Erik snorts, recalling Charles’ gangly, bespeckled student blinking at him on their front porch.

“And my profession?” Mystique asks, unblinking. “Are you going to be a hypocritical asshole about it still, or are you going to accept that this is what I do?”

“If you’re happy, I’m happy,” Charles says carefully. “But darling, you know I’m still going to worry.”

“Fine. Worry away, it’s always been your favorite thing to do.” She gives a small hint of a smile. “Your lack of condescension would be appreciated, though.”

Charles sighs loudly, but he’s smiling now too. “I guess I don’t have any legs left to stand on at all, as the two people most important to me are both probably on several _Most Wanted_ lists. What are the chances, though,” he adds mournfully, “that everyone I know outside of work is some kind of criminal mastermind?”

“Oh, get over yourself,” Mystique says, flapping a hand at him. “It’s actually hilarious, in retrospect, to see my straight-laced brother running around with a mob boss. Not that you’re off the hook,” she says sharply, pointing a finger at Erik, who lifts an eyebrow. “I still need to assess how well you treat him.”

Charles rolls his eyes heavenward. “And this is the _other_ reason why I never like to tell you who I’m dating.”

“As if you’re not a _thousand_ times worse.”

Erik’s phone beeps, and he gives a mental wince: just as tension is easing, the conversation finally getting smoother and the Xaviers beginning to sound like actual siblings. “Car’s on its way.”

“You two going out on a date tonight?” Mystique asks casually, sounding like she’ll be happy to crash it. Erik wishes only that were the case. He’d gladly take an awkward dinner with Mystique over the reality.

“Actually,” Charles says hesitantly, “about Guerrero.”

 

*

 

The ride out of Erik’s territory and into Barboza’s is just as silent as yesterday night, but this time Charles barely notices. His thoughts are all the way back in Erik’s office, where he’d left Erik and Raven bristling and sizing each other up like they’re planning on taking a couple swings at each other once Charles isn’t looking. Charles had explicitly forbidden them to kill one another, but he can still tell they don’t trust each other.

To say Raven had been displeased with the idea of Charles being on loan to Barboza would be a vast understatement. She’d been furious with Erik, and no amount of Charles trying to tell her he himself had made the call had been enough from stopping her from chewing Erik out. Erik’s temper had finally snapped somewhere during Charles’ changing into a fresh suit, and then he’d had to physically step between them to get them out of each other’s faces.

He wishes Raven hadn’t shown up until tomorrow, when he would’ve had an entire day to explain things to her. Instead Charles had to ask her to wait, soothe Erik’s sharp resentment towards everything in general—Raven’s accusations and having to send Charles back out to Barboza for the night ranking at the top—and kiss him goodbye, and then the town car with Creed and the same two other goons from Barboza’s organization had arrived.

If he’s honest with himself, he’s still not entirely over the shock of seeing Raven again, here and in person. He supposes her warning to him now makes sense. She’d known New York was heading for a shakeup because she keeps tabs on mob movements for her own business ventures, not because she’s a banker looking at the stock market.

It’s going to take him awhile to mentally come to terms with the fact his sister is a world-renowned black market smuggler and con artist. He’s still grappling with it, but he meant what he said. If this is what Raven wants to do with her life...he really has no moral high ground to stand on. It doesn’t stop him from wishing she wasn’t wrapped up in criminal affairs at all, but there’s really nothing he can do about it, now or ever.

Charles still has a minor headache from blurring all the witnesses’ memories at the scene earlier, his telepathy coiled tightly in his head to avoid brushing up against the two empty voids of the goons wearing blockers or Creed’s sickly, sticky mind. He can only hope Barboza doesn’t keep him any later than he did last night, but there’s still no telling what he’ll ask Charles to do this time. In all the chaos of Raven showing up, Charles had forgotten his dread but now it’s back in full force, a cold, hard lump settling heavily in the pit of his stomach.

He’ll be fine. He presumably passed Barboza’s test last night, so he shouldn’t have to endure anything worse than going into whoever’s mind Barboza orders him to and extracting whatever information Barboza is looking for. At least, that’s what he hopes.

Tonight, the car delivers him to an old, crumbling tenement building that looks exactly like what he imagines drug dens look like: dark, dirty, isolated, and empty. If not for lights shining in four or five of the windows, he would have thought the building to be completely abandoned. He can’t feel any minds inside though; either no one’s currently inside or the place is full of Barboza’s men, all of them wearing blockers. Not ideal, Charles thinks uneasily. Long drive out here, hardly any witnesses, nowhere nearby to run to—if something goes wrong, he’s pretty much on his own. It’s not a particularly comforting thought.

Creed prods him down the front walkway up to the steps of the building. As soon as they climb up the stairs, the scratched and faded front door swings open, and Creed herds him inside.

The hair on the back of Charles’ neck begins to prickle as they walk down a long, dimly-lit hallway, passing by several empty doorways leading into dark rooms. There’s another doorway at the end of the hall, this one with a closed door and light visible around the cracks, but Charles comes to a firm halt.

“What is this?” he asks, a great deal calmer than he feels. “Is Barboza here?”

“Keep moving,” Creed says behind him in his raspy voice, grin evident.

Steeling himself, Charles walks forward again, heading for the door at the end of the hall. He casts his telepathy out in all directions, but there’s still nothing. When they reach the door, Creed reaches over Charles’ shoulder with one thick arm and knocks, pauses for a moment, and then twists the door handle open.

Charles blinks in the flood of bright light, taking a couple steps forward across the threshold but then freezes, rooted to the spot like a deer in the headlights.

Guerrero grins at him from where he sits in an old armchair situated on one side of a low table. Barboza sits in another armchair across from him, looking down at his phone. He lifts a hand to beckon with two fingers, and Creed’s hands settle on Charles’ shoulders, pushing him forward and steering him further into the room until Charles is only several feet away from the two mob bosses, Creed standing uncomfortably close to his back.

“There’s the telepath,” Guerrero says, appraising Charles hungrily. There’s a strange sheen to his skin, and he somehow looks far older than he did just six months ago. “Good evening, Dr. Xavier, it’s so good to see you again.”

“I can’t say the same,” Charles answers coldly, but his whole body is tensed, ready to run. But there’s nowhere for him to go—several bodyguards are positioned around the room, and there are large boards nailed up over all the windows. Creed still stands at his back, blocking his way to the door, and Charles hears him inhale a long whiff, fingers on Charles’ shoulders flexing appreciatively.

Fear, Charles realizes. Creed can smell his fear.

“I’m glad I wasn’t able to kill you the last time we met, for what it's worth,” Guerrero says, sounding amused, “because then we wouldn’t have the perfect test subject now.”

Charles rips himself free of Creed’s hold, but two of the larger bodyguards step forward and grab him before he can even take a step, one on each side, holding Charles in place while he thrashes. His telepathy is useless, all of their minds hidden behind immovable artificial blocks, and Charles doesn’t even think to scream: there’s no one here to hear him.

Creed circles around to stand in front of him, grabbing onto Charles’ arm and ripping through his suit jacket like it’s little more than tissue paper. A woman in a white doctor’s lab coat steps forward from one corner of the room, a large syringe in her hand.

“Hold still, Dr. Xavier,” Guerrero says pleasantly as Creed wrenches Charles’ arm forward for the woman to examine, “this is only the first round, after all.” Across from him, Barboza watches Charles impassively.

“Don’t,” Charles says, struggling uselessly, but the men all have him in a firm body lock, and he’s hardly able to do more than twitch. The woman doesn’t even look up at him, pushing away the tattered remains of his sleeve with cold fingers and finding a vein. She deftly slides the needle into his skin and Charles _feels_ the clear liquid inside the barrel drain into him as she pushes the plunger.

_Erik_ , Charles broadcasts as loudly as he can, but he can already feel himself going numb, his vision swimming and his telepathy curling in on itself like a dried leaf instead of projecting outward, _Erik, ERIK—_

Everything goes dark.

 

*

 

He wakes facedown on a threadbare mattress. When he tries to push himself up, he ends up merely flopping weakly to the side. His muscles are like jello, and even lifting his head takes gargantuan effort.

The room swims gradually into view, and Charles squints up at the single, bare lightbulb glowing overhead. At first he can’t remember where he is, or what happened to him, but then it hits him all at once.

“Don’t waste your energy,” Barboza advises when Charles tries to pick himself up again, only to collapse back down immediately. He’s standing at the side of the bed with his arms folded behind his back, watching Charles struggle with a clinical gaze. “You aren’t going to get very far like this, Dr. Xavier.”

“What did—what did you—” The words are thick and clumsy in Charles’ mouth, slurring together. He manages to roll over onto his back but he feels exposed and helpless. He tries to coordinate his mouth and tongue better. “What did you do to me?”

“We’ll be testing a number of anti-telepathy antidotes on you tonight,” Barboza says, as casually as if he’s discussing menu options at a restaurant. “It’s obvious to us now you will not turn on Lehnsherr, but we cannot allow someone with your...abilities...to remain under his thumb. So we’ll kill you, but first Adrian would like to test a new line of products he’s developing. Are you getting all this?” he asks abruptly, eyes lifting.

Laboriously, Charles tilts his head to follow his gaze. The doctor stands on the other side of the bed, scribbling notes on a clipboard. She nods silently without looking up.

“We have to track your reactions,” Barboza explains, as if Charles has asked for a lesson. “And we also have to test how long it takes you to get your powers back.”

“Erik,” he manages, breathing shallowly through his mouth. “Erik is going to kill you.”

Barboza’s eyebrow rises. “You’re on a first-name basis with the man, are you? How much would he pay, do you think, to get you back?”

_Shit_. Charles presses his lips together, but it’s too late; he’s let on too much.

“Not that we would return you to him, of course,” Barboza continues idly. “You’re way too dangerous. But how much would he pay if he thought he could get you back?”

Charles grits his teeth and closes his eyes. His telepathy sparks weakly in his head, hazy and muted. When he tries to reach out, and expand his powers in a way that’s always been easy as breathing, a sharp, jabbing pain directly between his eyes makes him falter, gasping out loud and closing his mind tightly again to make it stop.

“That may be a sign he’s recovering his powers,” the doctor says. “The dose wasn’t very large, so it shouldn’t take long to wear off.”

“Dose him with the next one.”

“That—that may be unwise, sir,” the doctor says nervously, “we don’t know the effects the drugs will have on him in the first place. Mixing them could—”

“I suppose we don’t want our lab rat dying _too_ soon.” Charles hears Barboza’s chair scrape as he heaves himself to his feet. “Put him under for another hour. That’s all he gets.”

“Yes, sir.”

Panicked, Charles jerks away from the doctor’s cold fingers when she tries to close her hand around his wrist. He drags himself sideways across the mattress, muscles quivering, but if he can just get to his feet—

He crashes off the side of the bed and hits the hard floor with a yelp, too weak to stand. His head is starting to spin again, and his heart rate feels elevated, like it’s beating too fast even though he’s already panicking and afraid. It makes it hard to breathe, and he gasps for breath but it’s not enough, his chest tight enough to burst as large hands grab onto the back of his suit jacket and haul him back up onto the bed and hold him down in place.

“What the hell, he’s got something on underneath,” a voice growls, and a new bolt of fear lances through Charles. He hadn’t even realized Creed was in the room. Sharp claws shred through his jacket with a loud ripping noise, one of Creed’s knees planted on Charles’ lower back to keep him from rolling away. “Some kind of metal vest.”

“Cut him out of it,” Barboza says, his voice far away. “We’ll have one of the boys drop it on the other side of town where Lehnsherr will find it.”

God, Erik, Charles thinks hazily, his hands scrabbling weakly against the mattress even though he has no hope of breaking Creed’s grip on him in this state. He’s pinned like a bug. How long has it been since he left Erik and Raven? Do they even know he’s missing yet?

“Any day now, Dr. Leoni.”

“Sorry, sir.” She fumbles with Charles’ arm, trying to turn it over to expose his veins. Charles tries to yank his arm away, but then Creed reaches over and wrenches it back, making Charles give a small cry of pain.

“No,” Charles says, legs kicking out behind him somewhere uselessly, “no, please, don’t—”

There’s a sharp prick as the needle slides into his skin, and then Charles feels his heartbeat slowing, everything becoming lethargically heavy. He can’t hold his head up anymore, his whole body drooping where he lies, and he feels himself drifting down and down and down…

 

*

 

His mouth is dry. His skin feels too hot, like he’s been slowly baking alive and his brain is only just now realizing. When he tries to open his eyes, his eyelids feel tacky, like they’ve been glued shut.

A low whimper grinds its way out of his throat as he shifts weakly. He’s lying on his back, on the same stiff mattress. His suit jacket is gone, as is his tie and metal vest. He still has his white undershirt, but it’s soaked through with sweat.

He can feel the whisper of another mind.

Charles lunges for it, his telepathy shaky but reassuringly back. As soon as he makes contact with the other mind, it snaps shut on him like a mousetrap, and his whole body jerks as he tries to mentally recoil.

“He’s awake,” Creed says from somewhere above him. The light feels too bright for Charles to open his eyes. “Got his telepathy back, too. He just tried to read me.”

“Is he trying to control you?” Dr. Leoni asks nervously.

“Nah,” Creed says with a laugh. Charles struggles to pull away from him, but he’s caught like a fly on sticky paper. Creed’s thoughts are dark and viscous, tugging him downwards as if to drown him. “He’s barely got any juice. Might as well dose him with the next one, though.”

“R-Right.” There’s a soft clinking of glassware somewhere across the room.

Charles tries to sit up, but it’s like his arms and legs aren’t even attached to his body. He can still feel them, but it also feels like they’re floating away. It’s hot in the room. It’s so hot.

“Okay, this is Test Formula 2A,” Dr. Leoni says, her voice suddenly a lot closer. “Administering now.”

Charles thinks he flinches as she sticks another needle in his arm again. There’s a small pause as the drugs rush into his bloodstream, and he expects he’ll drift off again at any second.

He’s not prepared for how his telepathy abruptly tears itself free from Creed’s mind, rebounding on himself in a huge mental surge, making his whole body seize up, his eyes flying open wide. There’s another split second where there’s nothing, but then his entire body begins to burn, like he’s been doused in oil and lit on fire.

Charles opens his mouth and starts to scream.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for mention of drugs, forced & non-consensual drug use, and painful drug side effects.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All previously tagged & mentioned warnings still apply!

 

Erik is standing back outside one of Barboza’s warehouses at 5:47 am when Angel and Alex approach him. The rest of Erik’s people have emerged from the building too, but they hang back, as if they’re too afraid to get close.

Alex’s arms are folded tightly across his chest, as if he means to physically hold back one of his laser blasts, but Angel carries something in both hands.

“I don’t think he’s here, boss,” she says, her voice thick with tears, and Erik realizes she’s holding the tattered remains of Charles’ vest.

Beside him, Mystique gives a sharp intake of breath. Maybe she says something, Erik doesn’t know. He’s still staring at the vest, his vision tunneled down onto it, like it’s all he can see. There’s a high-pitched sound buzzing in his ears.

“Find him,” Erik says. His own voice sounds strange even to himself. Every piece of metal in the nearby vicinity is slowly beginning to lean towards him, creaking ominously.

“We’re looking,” Alex answers. He hasn’t sounded this angry since the early days, when he was fresh out of prison and furious with the entire world. “We’ve been looking all ni—”

“ _Look harder_ ,” Erik snarls, his voice echoing down the empty street, and it sends all of his people running, jumping into vehicles and tearing off into the beginnings of dawn to keep searching for any scrap of information as to where Charles could be. Alex and Angel go too, their faces like masks.

Only Mystique remains. Her eyes are hard, her fingers tight around the vest Angel handed her before she left.

Erik barely notices her. His powers explode out of him, lifting off his feet with the force of his fury, floating up high into the air as he unleashes his wrath on the empty warehouse below.

There’s not a single thing left standing by the time his feet touch the ground again.

 

*

 

He wakes up again. And again. And again.

Each time it gets harder to recall where he is, or what’s going on. Each time a fresh needle is plunged down into his arm before his telepathy can recover, and each time Charles is sent spiralling off into whatever next set of side effects of the drugs create.

The dose after the one that makes him feel like he’s burning from the inside out makes him immediately puke over the side of the bed. Once his stomach is empty he can’t seem to stop dry-heaving, fingers digging into the edge of the mattress helplessly as he chokes and chokes and chokes. His throat seems to want to close up but at the same time his stomach appears to want to eject itself from his body entirely. Dr. Leoni has to knock him out again with their control drug—heroin, he hears someone say—to get him to stop.

The next dose sends him into some kind of anaphylactic shock, starting with itching before hives break out all across his body and his stomach cramps, lungs contracting, all while his heart threatens to burst out of his chest. His telepathy is like a wooden block in his head, and Charles passes out with Dr. Leoni hovering over him with an epipen.

The next makes him lose his vision.

The next makes him curl up in a ball in the center of the bed, shaking and sobbing.

The next gives him hallucinations, everything in the room seeming to melt down before his eyes. Charles watches Creed’s face slide right off of his skull and he starts screaming again so they knock him out early.

The next leaves him paralyzed, unable to move at all. He lies stiff as a board on the mattress, unable to twitch even a finger as Creed pokes and prods at him. The drug has also given Charles a strange sort of hyper-awareness, so every small brush is like being stabbed with a knife. This time he can only scream inside his own head.

The next makes him feel like his entire body has been turned inside out. Fortunately Charles is only awake for a grand total of three seconds to experience it.

The next makes him feel surprisingly good, and he’s even able to sit up. But then he starts seeing things, like a giant, shapeless _thing_ in the doorway, staring at him with burning eyes. Filled with mindless terror, Charles propels himself backwards off the bed and all the way across the room to huddle in a corner, shaking like a leaf. When Creed tries to drag him back to the bed, Charles puts up a fight and lands a fist in one of Creed’s eyes. Creed punches him in the stomach and Charles’ ribs give a twinge painful enough to mercifully knock him out again.

The next dose gives him a seizure.

The next makes him burn again. Charles loses track after that.

In between each new batch of drugs, Charles is injected with more heroin. His telepathy never has a chance to recover, always weighed down and trapped in his own head. A small corner of his mind that sometimes retains a small sliver of lucidity wonders what kind of data they even expect to gather; this is just a specific kind of torture, not a drug study.

He doesn’t know how long it’s been since he first got here. He doesn’t even know how long he’s made to suffer under each drug’s side effects. It could be seconds. It could be hours. All Charles knows is he keeps waking up and waking up and waking up.

His mouth is bone dry. Sometimes Dr. Leoni gives him a drink of water but it’s never enough. He can’t seem to get his lungs to fully expand any longer, even though sometimes Charles thinks all he needs is a nice, deep breath. Instead his breathing is shallow, like he’s run too fast for too long. He knows he could catch his breath if only they’d just let him rest.

They never let him rest.

 

*

 

Erik will come, his mind says as he shakes and convulses on the bed.

Erik will come, his thoughts whisper as he sobs hysterically with no way to stop.

Erik will come, something tells him even though for some reason he currently can’t remember his own name.

Every time Charles wakes up again, Erik still hasn’t come.

 

*

 

“How’s he doing?”

“Not good. I’ve been keeping the doses small but he’s still in danger of OD’ing if we don’t give him a break. He needs to be able to flush out the drugs in his system before we start the next batch, sir.”

“Fine, fine. His telepathy has been under control?”

“Every sample so far has kept his telepathy smothered, sir. Mr. Creed can attest.”

“Excellent. Trask will be glad to hear it.”

“Every single one has an entire slew of strong, undesirable side effects, sir. If he’s planning to put any of this on the market—”

“You’re not here to worry about the business side of things, Dr. Leoni. Your only job is to make sure our little lab rat stays alive long enough to test out all the samples Guerrero brought over. You _do_ want to see your daughter again, don’t you?”

“Y-Yes, sir. Very much.”

“Let him sleep it off. Then start the next round of doses.”

“Yes, sir.”

 

*

 

When Erik was sixteen years old, his mother died. It wasn’t a gentle, peaceful death—Erik would have given his own soul for her to have died in her sleep, or been hit by a car and died instantly on impact, or taken one bullet to the back of the skull. But she hadn’t. She had died slowly, agonizingly, and Erik had thrashed and screamed and cried until his voice was raw with grief and fury, but he hadn’t been able to do anything about it. He had only been able to watch and wish he could just die with her.

That was what it meant to be powerless. That was what he learned that night. It’s a lesson he has never forgotten and one he swore would never, ever repeat. For most of his life, the solution had been to keep everyone at a distance, to let no one through his defenses. And it had worked. It had worked so well he had never realized there could be something _more_ to his life until Dr. Charles Xavier’s name had crossed his desk. From that first meeting, Charles had intrigued him, and from there the curiosity had turned to fascination, from fascination to enthrallment, and from that, finally, to a fierce, uncompromising love. Erik had been miles deep before he realized what was happening, and the moment he allowed himself to acknowledge the truth of his feelings, he had made two promises, one to Charles and one to himself.

To Charles, he had promised they would be equals. No longer would they be employer and employee—now they would stand together on equal footing. That had been Charles’ largest stipulation, and Erik had agreed without protest. He wouldn’t have wanted it any other way.

To himself, in a secret place he never allowed Charles to see, he had promised that what had happened to his mother would never happen to Charles. He would never be powerless when it came to Charles. It wouldn’t matter if they tore down his empire, if they razed his buildings to the ground, if they burned everything he had spent half a lifetime creating. So long as he still had the strength to protect Charles, that was all that mattered.

And now Charles is gone. Charles is gone and all Erik knows is that Charles is at the mercy of their enemies. Nothing in the world could be worse than this, except perhaps news that Charles is already dead.  

But there are far worse things than death. Erik has lived them. And it hurts now—it _hurts_ , deep in his chest in a dark place behind his rage and terror, to think that Charles may be suffering. To _know_ something is happening to Charles and to feel the clock ticking oppressively above his own head, impossible to ignore.

“Erik.”

He opens his eyes and looks up sharply. It’s Alex, hovering hesitantly by his arm.

“Yeah,” Erik says.

His tone is brusquer than he intends. Alex jumps but stands his ground. “I had a thought.”

Erik waves his hand impatiently. “What is it?”

“Well, even with everyone spread out, we have limited manpower. We can’t cover the whole city on our own, and our allies can’t give us much support. We need more people.”  

“Which is why Mystique is pulling in her contacts.”

Alex shakes his head. “I don’t think that’ll be enough. She doesn’t even operate in New York, never has. She can’t have any real connections here.”

“So what are you suggesting?”

Alex takes a deep breath and squares his jaw. “I want to bring in the NYPD.”

Erik goes perfectly still. Into the silence, Alex blurts out, “I know a guy. I mean, you know him, too, it’s Muñoz. He’s a good cop, one of the few, and he’s a mutant. He’s the best thing we’ve got to an ally on the force, and he’ll listen to me. If I give him Charles’ picture, he’ll send it out. They can have cops scouring Manhattan in half an hour. They’ve got to look for Charles, right? He’s like, a respectable professor, and he’s pretty fucking loaded. I’m pretty sure his foundation’s donated to the NYPD before—they’ll make him a priority, right? They _have_ to.”

His voice wavers at the end, and he has to swallow before he can continue. “That’s all I had,” he says softly. “I mean, that’s all I can think of that might help.”

It would help to have extra manpower on the streets. Plus the NYPD has access to databases and intel Erik doesn’t. It’s a fucking huge risk, _inviting_ the NYPD into mob affairs, but Erik can’t see an alternative. They’re stretched thin as it is.

He nods. “Do it.”

Alex’s eyes widen. “Really, sir…?”

“If it’ll help Charles,” Erik grits out, “then do it. Keep it limited to Muñoz’s precinct _only_.”

“Okay. Yeah.” Alex backs up. “Okay.”

He’s gone from Erik’s office in a flash, pulling his phone out and dialing as he goes. Erik can’t even bring himself to be concerned about the fact that one of his lieutenants apparently has an NYPD cop on speed-dial; all he cares about is anything that might bring Charles back to him.

He should never have let Charles agree to go to Barboza. He should have _known_ something was off. Why the fuck had he been so naïve? So trusting? How could he have ever believed Barboza would keep his word?

_Because Charles believed him. Because you trust Charles’ judgment in everything, and look where it’s gotten you. Look where it’s gotten_ him.

He cradles his head in his hands and forces himself to breathe. In and out, nice and slow. Nothing can happen unless he’s in control. He can’t get anything done unless he’s in control.

Eyes slipping closed, he reaches out with his powers as far as they can go, stretching them out and out and out over the streets, over Manhattan. He searches for Charles’ bracelet, that slim piece of metal he knows as well as his own heartbeat, his first gift to Charles. It’s a nearly impossible target, dimmed to insignificance in a city full of irrelevant metal, but still Erik tries.

All he can do is try.

 

*

 

Waking has become excruciating. This time he wakes fully braced, tensed and waiting for the worst of the pain and nausea to hit him and wash him back under, only this time there’s nothing.

There’s nothing.

Every inch of Charles’ body aches. When he tries to move, he ends up whimpering softly, which hurts his already torn, sore throat. His eyes water behind his closed lids, and that’s when a small tremor begins to run through him, shaking where he lies curled on his side.

It takes him awhile, but eventually he’s able to open his eyes. The room is dark, but what he thinks is sunlight leaks in a little around the edges of the boards over the windows. It must be morning by now. He can’t see Creed, but he can see Dr. Leoni, sitting slumped in a plastic chair beside a table covered in glass bottles and syringes, breathing slow and steady in her sleep.

Charles stays like he is, trembling. He’s chilled to the bone, nearly freezing. It’s like he’s had a fever all night but now with sunrise it’s finally broken, leaving his body temperature severely out of whack and his mind sluggish. Everything has blurred together into some kind of long, feverish nightmare, and Charles pushes it away as he shivers. He doesn’t want to remember.

Gradually he realizes he’s able to reach his telepathy. It’s thin and broken, like patchy cell phone reception. He can only barely sense Dr. Leoni’s mind. She’s taken out her telepathy blocker but he doesn’t have enough strength to push past the blanket of unconsciousness to read her subconscious. But for the first time all night, Charles can feel another mind.

He has to get up. He can’t stay here. He needs to get back to Erik.

Progress is slow. It seems to take him an entire hour just to sit up, his muscles watery and his coordination completely gone. He feels like an infant learning to do this for the very first time. It’s frustrating, and the entire time he’s terrified Creed will come back and stop him. If Charles loses momentum now, he’s not sure he’ll ever be able to get it back.

And he knows he won’t survive another round of test drugs.

Eventually Charles has situated himself sitting on the edge of the dirty mattress, feet flat on the floor. Someone has taken his socks, shoes, vest, and pants—all he has left on are his boxers and his thin t-shirt he’d had under his jacket and dress shirt.

Standing up seems like a mountain peak that’s just too high to climb. The mere act of sitting up and getting to the edge of the mattress has left Charles exhausted. His entire body feels wiped out, like he’s had a wildfire burn through him, leaving him scraped open empty and raw in the aftermath. His mouth feels like it’s full of cotton; he’s dizzy with thirst and hunger. He just wants to go home.

Charles gathers every last bit of his telepathy he can still reach, mentally sharpening it into a blunt battering ram. He doesn’t need his usual non-intrusive finesse right now; he can’t afford to be gentle. His telepathy is too weak to consider attempting to reach out across the city for Erik, so all he needs to do is find someone with a phone.

He bores into Dr. Leoni’s mind, shoving his way in past the layer of sleep clouding her thoughts. The intrusion causes her to wake, her eyes fluttering open with a sharp gasp of pain, but by then Charles has her, pinning her in place and keeping her from crying out for help.

Her mind quivers under his like a frightened bird. _Oh god, he’s awake, he’s going to melt my brain and then they’ll kill Alice_ —

_I’m not going to melt your brain_ , Charles answers. He doesn’t even recognize his own mental voice. He flickers through the doctor’s memories, and while he’s not exactly doing it on purpose, he’s not as gentle as he usually is. Rebecca Leoni flinches in his grasp as he moves through her mind with his quickly-fraying telepathy, her frightened eyes wide as she stares at him helplessly from across the room.

Finally Charles withdraws a little, having learned all he needs to know about the woman responsible for torturing him all night. She has no more desire to be here than he does, but Barboza is holding her young daughter somewhere. He’s promised little Alice’s safe return as long as her mother cooperates.

_Go to sleep_ , Charles tells her, and Rebecca slumps where she sits, out like a light. Charles extracts himself the rest of the way from her mind, feeling sick.

He begins the slow, laborious process of climbing to his feet. As Rebecca is just as much of a prisoner here as Charles is, they haven’t left her with a phone. He’s going to have to search elsewhere, which probably means he’s going to have to take on some of Barboza’s men, or Creed, or Barboza himself. Guerrero could still be here too, unless he’s already slithered back under whatever rock he’s hiding under.

Charles decides he’d much rather be shot in a struggle than lie here waiting to be drugged back to oblivion again. He has no way to combat any of Barboza’s men if they’re all still wearing blockers, but he has to try.

Somehow he gets his body arranged in the right manner to allow walking. He feels like he’s drunk, immediately staggering as soon as he’s upright, and he has to catch himself on the wall to keep from faceplanting. It will be much harder to stand again from the floor, so he holds onto the wall to keep himself up and slowly begins to inch towards the door.

His luck seems to be holding, because the door is unlocked. Perhaps they assumed Dr. Leoni was cowed enough into compliance to not even dream of trying to escape, or perhaps Creed has only left for a brief bathroom break. Charles fumbles with clumsy fingers on the doorknob, trying to ignore how the shadows seem to be moving in the corners of his vision.

A little panicky, he twists the knob with shaking hands and pushes his way through the door out into the same hallway from last night. It’s eerily still and empty, with no sign of any of Barboza’s men. A small humming noise comes from the aged florescent lights overhead, casting harsh light that makes everything appear washed out and pale. Charles listens intently for the sound of voices or footsteps, holding onto the doorframe for balance.

He can dimly make out the sound of a voice coming from the same door at the end of the hallway where Barboza and Guerrero had been waiting for him last night. Charles is only three doors away, so it’s not too far of a walk. He can’t quite make out what the voice is saying, but it sounds like Barboza speaking to someone on the phone.

Charles wants badly to spread his telepathy out and check for anyone else in the building. Even if they’re all still wearing blockers, he’d at least be able to sense the strange, empty voids where their minds should be, like black holes in pockets of space. But he can’t risk trying to spread his telepathy thin: he doesn’t have the strength to maintain it, and if he loses his grip on it now he’s not sure he could get it back. Instead he keeps it coiled up in his head, ready to strike.

He makes his way towards the end of the hallway. The dirty linoleum floor is chilly on his bare feet, and he’s still shaking from a mixture of cold and aftershocks from the effects of the drugs they’ve been pumping into his system all night. The heroin alone was probably enough to send him spiralling into a whole slew of side effects, and who knows what kinds of compounds and chemicals were in the rest. Charles has to press the back of the hand not resting against the wall for support tightly against his mouth to keep from making a small, panicked sound.

“—sent my men to look into it,” Barboza is saying, his voice audible through the closed door as Charles creeps closer. “Lehnsherr leveled the whole goddamn block yesterday, so all our reserves are—no, for fuck’s sake, I’ve got the police crawling up my ass now too—”

Hazily, Charles comes to a swaying halt just outside the door. He still can’t tell if Barboza is inside the room alone, but it sounds as if he might’ve sent his men away, because of something Erik did. _Erik_. Charles can’t remember Erik destroying anything yesterday, but maybe something happened last night after Charles went with Creed. Maybe—no, almost _certainly_ —Erik got impatient once Charles wasn’t returned.

Before Charles can steel himself to open the door, the door to his immediate right opens without warning and Creed steps out into the hallway. For a split second, he and Charles stare at one another, both equally surprised to see each other. Then Charles opens his mouth just as Creed lunges at him.

Charles’ shout is broken off before he can even draw breath for it, Creed’s fingers wrapping around his throat and cutting off his air. Charles chokes, but the sound is muffled, and his back hits the opposite wall as Creed walks him backwards, pinning him there and grinning down at him while Charles struggles weakly, hands batting ineffectively at Creed’s shoulders. Charles doesn’t have the strength to throw Creed off—even on a good day, Creed still outsizes him once or twice over.

“I could just kill you now,” Creed murmurs, keeping his voice low. In the other room, Barboza continues his conversation, completely unaware. “You and I both know these drugs are worthless. Trask wants to make a Cure, but he’s got no real research. It would be a mercy to put you out of your misery.”

His grip on Charles’ throat tightens, and Charles tries to twist beneath him. His bare feet hit the ground with soft thumps, but it’s nowhere near loud enough to attract Barboza’s attention. His vision is starting to go foggy, Creed’s face a nauseating blur in front of him.

Desperately Charles throws a lance of his telepathy at Creed’s mind, but Creed brushes him off like a fly. Charles isn’t strong enough, his telepathy too shaky to be able to clamp down on Creed’s ugly mind.

“Maybe I’ll let go and make you beg for it,” Creed says, one of his thumbs tracing idly across Charles’ jawline. “If you beg prettily enough, I’ll even dump your body somewhere Lehnsherr can actually find it.”

Erik, Charles thinks, _Erik_. Mustering up the very last of his strength, Charles throws all of himself mentally at Creed, digging in with telepathic fingers and tearing Creed’s mind open just enough for him to gain control.

_LET GO_ , Charles orders, driving the command straight into Creed’s cortex, _GET AWAY FROM ME._

Abruptly Creed’s hands pull back from Charles’ throat, and Charles takes in a huge lungful of air. He coughs as he slides down the wall to huddle on the floor, tears streaming down his cheeks and his telepathy all but burnt to a crisp. Above him, Creed turns like a robot and walks stiffly down the hallway, forced to follow Charles’ mental command. Charles has no idea how long it will last or where Creed will end up going, but he’s too exhausted to care. It worked.

It takes him a long time to gather up the energy to stand again. He’s not sure how long he stays curled on the floor, hands clamped over his mouth and nose to muffle the sound of his breathing as he tries to get it back to normal and his nerves aligned into something calm enough for him to be able to function. His shaking has gotten worse, but he’s not sure if it’s because of his fear or the cold. He feels like he’s beginning to unravel at the seams, his entire being aching with how much he just wants to go home.

Almost there. He’s almost there.

After an eternity, Charles gets himself back up and over to the door again. Barboza’s voice has gone silent; his phone call must be over. There’s no telling if or when Barboza’s going to head back to the room he expects Charles and Dr. Leoni to be in. There’s no telling when any of his other men are going to return either. It’s now or never.

Charles twists the doorknob and pushes the door open, stepping into the room. Barboza sits in the same worn armchair he was in last night, looking down at his phone screen. He lifts his head at the sound of the door, eyes widening in surprise at the sight of Charles.

_FREEZE_. Charles tries to throw the mental command at him, but it only half-sticks: Barboza tries to rise to his feet, only to crash back down onto the floor with a loud thud, flopping almost comically as he tries to throw off Charles’ weak influence.

Without wasting time Charles throws himself forward, staggering across the small distance and landing hard on his knees beside the low table between the armchairs. There’s a handgun resting on the surface and he snatches it up, ignoring the shockwaves of pain traveling up his thighs, clicking the safety off and pointing it at Barboza with one trembling hand.

Barboza freezes for real this time, falling still of his own volition while halfway to sitting up. An ugly expression crosses his face but he doesn’t move, eyes darting between Charles’ face and the shaking barrel of the gun.

“Give me your phone,” Charles growls, finger resting on the trigger. The whole world spins, like he’s sitting on a playground carousel and only just barely holding on. There are shadows moving in the corners of his eyes again, and Charles flinches without meaning to, shying away.

“Give me the gun,” Barboza snarls, leaning forward to snatch it from Charles’ grip but Charles throws himself backwards and blindly fires off a shot, the recoil making his entire arm jerk.

Barboza screams as Charles hits his head on the base of the other armchair, his ears ringing from the bang of the gun. He quickly scrambles back up onto his knees again, gripping the gun with both hands now and pointing it back at Barboza.

Barboza glares up at him from the floor, clutching his leg. Charles can see a dark bloodstain beginning to form on his trousers, oozing up out of the wound on his thigh. “Fucking mutie,” Barboza rasps, and Charles swallows.

“Give me your phone,” he repeats, “or I’ll shoot you in the other leg too. Try me.”

Hissing in pain, Barboza reaches over to pick his phone up off the floor where he’d dropped it, throwing it over at Charles. Charles doesn’t take his eyes off Barboza for a second, taking one hand off the gun to reach down and fumbling until he picks the phone up.

“Passcode?”

“9-1-6-4,” Barboza spits.

It takes Charles a couple tries, but he gets the phone unlocked. Both his hands are shaking so badly now he probably wouldn’t be able to hit Barboza again if his life depended on it and it takes him three attempts to open the phone’s number pad, but Barboza doesn’t appear to be able to move any further and finally Charles is able to tap out a number he knows by heart.

Charles lifts the phone to his ear, heart pounding painfully hard as he listens to the dial tone ring. He’s exhausted, strung out on his wit’s end, and all he wants more than anything is to hear—

“Where is he?” Erik snarls as soon as he picks up, his accent thicker than normal, the way it gets when he’s upset but trying to hide it. Charles can feel his face start to crumble, and at first he can’t speak, unable to find his voice, so Erik barrels on, “This wasn’t part of the fucking agreement, and if you don’t think I won’t find out wherever you’re—”

“Erik,” Charles manages to get out at last, his voice thick and sounding nothing like himself, “Erik—”

“ _Charles?_ ” Erik’s voice comes out strangled now, as if he can barely believe it. “Charles, where are you?”

“I don’t know,” Charles says, breathing out harshly through his nose to keep from sounding like he’s centimeters from breaking down. He doesn’t think it’s working.

“Keep talking,” Erik says. His voice is more controlled now but Charles knows him well enough to detect the small waver. “We’re going to trace the call to you. We’re going to come get you. Are you hurt?”

“No,” Charles gulps, trying to take calmer, deeper breaths. “Just—just hurry, please.”

“We’re coming as fast as we can. Is there anything you can tell us about where you are? Anything?”

“Um…” He tries to wrack his brain for clues, but everything is fuzzy and indistinct. Details swim hazily across his mind, impossible for him to grasp onto. Frustrated, he says, “I don’t know. I don’t know, Erik, I’m sorry, I don’t know.”

He doesn’t realize how hysterical he sounds until Erik says hurriedly, “Shh. It’s alright, it’s fine. We’ll find you, Charles, I promise. Are you safe? How did you get Barboza’s phone?”

“I, um…” There are shadows at the corners of his eyes again, and he shakes his head in agitation, trying to force them away. Barboza is watching him, narrowed eyes flicking between Charles’ face and the gun in his hand. He won’t be able to control the man for much longer; he feels on the edge of collapse already. “Please, just _hurry_ , Erik.”

“We’re coming,” Erik promises fervently. “Just hold on, we’ll be there soon.”

The thundering of footsteps behind him makes him whirl. The gunshot must have caught the attention of Barboza’s men, Charles realizes belatedly. Any second now, they’ll come barreling through the open door behind him and they’ll drag him back to the room with the drugs and—and he can’t go back there. He _won’t_.

“Someone’s coming,” Charles whispers, paralyzed with panic and indecision. His telepathy is burnt out, he has no hope of infiltrating any more minds like this. “Erik, someone’s coming—”

“Stay on the phone,” Erik orders, “Charles, stay on the phone, it’s going to be okay—”

“In here!” Barboza shouts suddenly, making Charles jump. “We’re in here!”

“What was that?” Erik demands in Charles’ ear, but the footsteps are drawing closer and closer and the door flings all the way open and Charles doesn’t think, he just reacts.

Two men stampede into the room with their guns drawn but Charles shoots first, two more deafening gunshots going off as he aims low. The first man goes down with a bullet in his leg, his gun flying forward out of his hand and skittering across the floor right to Charles, and he drops the phone to pick it up.

The second bullet goes wide and the other man manages to dodge out of the way, throwing himself to the side and shooting a spray of bullets back in retaliation. He’s obviously a street thug, and no trained solider, as the bullets all hit the opposite wall, too high to hit Charles, but Charles’ heart is in his throat as he shoots back blindly, squeezing his eyes shut and pulling the trigger until the magazine in his first gun is empty.

When he opens his eyes again, everything is still. The first man lies on his side, cradling his knee and moaning in pain, while the second man lies facedown against the wall where he landed. Charles can’t tell if he’s breathing or not.

His own breathing is coming too quickly, harsh and panicked and he thinks he might be sick. Barboza has started to drag himself towards the open doorway but when Charles lifts his new gun and points it at him, he stops, panting.

“Charles! _Charles!_ ” Erik is shouting his name, voice tinny from the phone’s tiny speaker. Charles fumbles to pick the phone up, vision swimming now. “Charles, answer me, _please_ —”

“I’m here,” Charles says, his breath hitching with a sob, “I’m alright, but I can’t—I can’t do this anymore, Erik—”

“Charles,” Erik breathes out on the other end of the line, sounding relieved. He takes a breath, gathering himself, but when he speaks again his voice is only slightly steadier. “Stay with me, okay? We’ve almost got your location pinned and then we’ll be there. We’re coming to get you. It’s going to be alright.”

There may be more people coming. Those two can’t have been the only protection Barboza has here. Plus, Creed could return at any moment—the command Charles had laid on him hadn’t been powerful enough to endure for long. It would be smart to barricade the door, or to slip out and take his chances on finding an exit. Anything would be smarter than just sliding to the ground and slumping against the wall. But that’s all Charles can do. Adrenaline alone can’t keep him on his feet any longer, and he ends up leaning heavily against the wall, panting.

“You’re gonna pay for this,” Barboza spits. Sweat beads thickly along his forehead, and his skin is pale as a sheet; the wound in his thigh must be bad. Blood pools underneath him and coats the hand he has pressed to his leg. He might die, Charles thinks. If a doctor doesn’t get to him soon, he might die.  

The thought that Charles might be responsible for his death should be sickening, but right now, Charles can’t feel anything but fierce relief. If Barboza is weak, then he’ll be easier to control. And if he’s dead, then he can’t hurt Charles or Erik anymore. He won’t be able to touch anyone Charles loves.

“You’re going to be okay, Charles,” Erik is saying when Charles tunes back in to his soothing voice over the phone. “We think we have a lock on your location, we’re leaving right now. We’re actually close by, our ETA is fifteen minutes. I’ll be there soon.”

“Okay,” Charles says, sinking down off his knees into a huddled position, with his back against the wall. He wants to close his eyes and shut out everything but the sound of Erik’s voice, but he knows better. He keeps them open, staring at Barboza, resting the grip of the gun on the floor with the barrel still pointed at him.

“Mysti—Raven is here,” Erik continues. He sounds like he’s saying anything that immediately comes to mind, anything to keep talking and fill in the silence. Charles is grateful; it gives him something to focus on. “She’s coming too. We’re both on our way. Everyone’s coming. Everyone’s been searching for you for the past two days, even the NYP—”

“Two days?” Charles interrupts, the plastic phone case creaking as his grip tightens. “Two _days?_ ”

“Charles,” Erik says, somewhat helplessly, “it’s Monday afternoon.”

Charles draws in a sharp breath, and a small, nervous sound escapes him on the exhale. Two days. He hasn’t lost one night, he’s lost _two entire days_.

“Charles— _Charles_ ,” Erik is saying sharply, breaking through the rapidly descending fog over Charles’ mind, “you have to breathe, Charles. It’s okay, _schatz_. It’s going to be okay.”

Charles doesn’t say anything in reply, keeping his eyes trained on Barboza, who’s no longer glaring at him. Instead, he’s slumped back, breathing shallowly. The puddle of blood underneath him continues to grow steadily, and the smell of it stings Charles’ nose. He tries briefly to reach out with his telepathy to see if there’s anyone else coming, but the effort sends a bolt of agony splitting through his head. He bites down on his lip so hard it draws blood and squeezes his eyes shut, breathing harshly through his teeth.

Through the phone, he hears the slam of doors and distant raised voices—Erik and his people loading up in the SUVs, it sounds like. They’re coming for him. They’re coming for him and he’s going to be okay, everything’s going to be _alright_. He clings tightly to the thought.

Across the room, Barboza croaks, “I need a doctor.”

Slowly, Charles lifts his head. Barboza’s chest heaves with each rapid breath as he holds shaking hands to the bullet wound in his leg. His face is haggard, his eyes glazed with pain. “I need a doctor,” he grunts again when their eyes meet. “I’m bleeding out, I need a fucking doctor.”

Charles just stares at him for a long moment, wishing he could revel in Barboza’s pain, wishing it felt good and cathartic. But it doesn’t feel good—he just feels hollow and exhausted. Barboza’s death would solve half their problems, it’s true, but Charles isn’t a killer. He doesn’t want to be.

By force of will, he musters the energy to crawl over to Barboza, who’s lying on the floor now, too weak to hold himself up. “I’m going to help you,” Charles says. “But if you make a move, I won’t hesitate to shoot you, understand?”

Barboza’s eyes are tight with suspicion and pain, but he nods once.

“Charles?” Erik asks through the phone, sounding confused. “What’s going on?”

“Just hurry,” Charles tells him, then sets the phone down. Keeping the gun in his hand pointed at Barboza’s chest, he says to him, “I’m going to need your belt for a tourniquet. Take it off.”

As Barboza struggles to comply, Charles strains his ears listening for any more footsteps. The rest of Barboza’s men must have raised the alarm by now. There’s no way the two men Charles had shot were the only ones in the entire building, and once they realize they haven’t heard from Barboza, they’ll come running. At least this close, he’ll be able to grab Barboza as a hostage if need be. One thing at a time.

When Barboza’s removed his belt, Charles wraps it above the bleeding wound and tightens it one-handed. He tries not to let the other hand, the one holding the gun, waver. He yanks the tourniquet tight, feeling a secret pang of satisfaction when Barboza groans in pain.

“There,” he pants, wiping his bloody hand on his shirt and scooping up the phone again. “That should hold until someone gets to you.”

Barboza merely glares at him with glassy eyes, his breath coming short and shallow. Sitting down heavily, Charles drags himself back a few feet so that he’s out of reach of Barboza’s arms and forces himself to think. Barricading the door would be the smart play now, but he doesn’t think he can even stand up right now, let alone shove heavy furniture in front of the door. He has at least one bullet in his gun; he’d checked the chamber but he’s too wary of Barboza to remove the magazine and get a full bullet count. But even if the magazine were full, he doesn’t have enough bullets to fend off Barboza’s reinforcements. All he can do is hope that he can keep himself intact long enough for Erik to arrive.

“You think you’re getting out of here?” Barboza rasps eventually. “My men will be here any moment. They’re going to put a bullet in your head.”

“Don’t fucking listen to him,” Erik snarls in Charles’ ear. “We’re ten minutes out.”

Someone adds something in the background—Alex, it sounds like. Then Erik says with obvious reluctance, “The NYPD is two minutes out. They’ll get to you first.”

“NYPD?” Charles echoes, alarmed. “But…” If they find him, they’ll take him in, and it’ll be hours before Erik can get to him. They’ll likely open a whole investigation into his kidnapping, and the evidence will eventually lead back to Erik. The last thing Erik needs right now is the police snooping around his business.

“I know,” Erik growls. “I know. But if they can get to you faster and get you to safety—”

He cuts himself off, but Charles knows what he’s saying. It humbles him that Erik prizes his safety above the security of his own syndicate, but he isn’t surprised. He knew the depths of Erik’s devotion a long time ago.

“I can hear sirens now,” Charles says, listening as the loud wailing draws steadily closer and closer.

“Good,” Erik says, “stay right where you are. Alex is on the phone with Muñoz. Do you know where you are in the building?”

“Top floor, at the end of the hall,” Charles says, and Erik repeats it to Alex. Outside the sirens have cut off, and Charles can see the bright red and blue lights of patrol cars flashing through the cracks around the boards over the windows. “The cops are here.”

“Alex told Muñoz exactly where you are,” Erik answers, “he’s coming to get you.”

“I—” Charles begins, but then somewhere down below a volley of gunshot goes off, along with shouting and screaming.

“What was that?” Erik demands. “Charles?”

“I think the cops have engaged the rest of Barboza’s men,” Charles says, flinching as more shots go off. Across the room, Barboza’s opened his eyes from where they’d drifted shut, listening intently.

“You’re going to be okay,” Erik tells him. “We’re almost there, Charles.”

“I want to see you,” Charles says, and he hears Erik take a shaky breath.

“You will,” he promises intently, “the cops aren’t going to take you anywhere.”

Loud, booted footsteps are coming down the hallway now, and Charles can hear them kicking in doors one by one. “They’re coming,” he says to Erik, shifting nervously.

“Don’t hang up the phone yet,” Erik says, and then an entire SWAT team is flooding into the room.

“Freeze! Put the weapon down!” the commander shouts, while his squadmates spread out to cover Barboza and the other two mafia grunts.

Charles slowly lowers his gun, lying it flat on the floor and sliding it towards him. The man kicks it aside into a corner where no one can reach it. “Room clear!”

Armando appears in the doorway, tucking his own gun into its holster at his belt. “Dr. Xavier,” he says calmly, approaching Charles with a warm, friendly smile. “I’m glad to see you. I’m Armando Muñoz with NYPD. I believe we have a mutual acquaintance.”

Charles nods mutely, unsure how to react. Now that the cops are here, physically here in the same room, he doesn’t know what to do. Everything is overwhelming.

“Can you stand?” Armando asks him, crouching down in front of him. When Charles shakes his head, he says, “That’s alright, no worries. I’m going to help you, okay? Do you mind if I take that?”

Charles realizes he’s talking about the phone. Slowly, he hands it over.

“I’m going to hang this up now, alright?” Armando says loudly, most likely for Erik’s benefit. “We’ve got you now, you’re safe.”

“Thank you,” Charles says and Armando smiles at him as he ends the call and slides the phone into his pocket.

“Hey, no problem, just doing my job. Can you walk?”

“Yes,” Charles answers.

“Great, I’m going to help you up now, okay, and we’re going to walk you out of here. There’s an ambulance waiting and some paramedics are going to check you out. May I touch you?”

“Yes,” Charles says again, and Armando shifts forward, getting beside him and carefully putting one of Charles’ arms around his shoulders. “I don’t want to go to the hospital.”

“It’s up to you, Dr. Xavier,” Armando says calmly, boosting them both up their feet with strength surprising for his wiry frame. It must be his adaptative mutation at work. “Let’s see what the guys downstairs recommend, though, how’s that sound?” He twists his head down to speak into the radio clipped to the front of his uniform near his shoulder, grabbing the mic with his free hand. “Hostage recovered, on our way out.”

Charles concentrates on putting one foot in front of the other as Armando walks him out of the room, passing by the SWAT members checking over Barboza and his two men. Armando keeps their pace slow and steady, allowing Charles to lean on him. There are more SWAT people in the hallway, searching through each room and checking for more people. Charles keeps his head down as they pass by the room with Dr. Leoni and the drugs inside.

“You’re doing just fine,” Armando says calmly as they approach the stairs, “we can stop and take a break any time if you need one.”

Charles shakes his head, so together they make their halting way down the stairs. Everything still seems surreal and dreamlike, especially since his telepathy is little more than a pile of ashes at this point; he can’t sense any of their minds. All too soon, he and Armando are stepping out of the crumbling building and into blinding sunlight, with three SWAT vans and a cluster of NYPD cars surrounding the front of the building, the parking lot a hive of activity.

“Easy, Dr. Xavier,” Armando says when he feels Charles balk, “you can just close your eyes if the sun’s too bright. I won’t let you fall.”

“Okay,” Charles says through gritted teeth. He keeps them open, though, even though he can feel himself starting to shake again. Armando walks him all the way over to the ambulance parked at the back of the police convoy, and two paramedics descend on them at once.

“Let me just sit him down right here,” Armando says, guiding Charles into sitting on the edge of the back of the open ambulance. “You guys can’t take off yet until we get a statement from him, so hang tight.”

“I don’t want to go to the hospital,” Charles repeats numbly, but Armando is already striding off, leaving him in the hands of the paramedics who flutter around him like moths, shining penlights in his eyes and taking his pulse at his wrist and asking too many questions. Charles tries to answer but they’re talking too fast, he can’t keep up, his tongue thick and clumsy in his mouth.

And then Armando reappears, and at his side is Erik. Raven is there too, wearing her familiar blond-haired disguise she often wore when they were young, but all Charles can focus on is Erik striding straight towards him, and Charles pushes himself up to his feet and out of the grasp of the paramedics. He ignores their protests and takes a couple of shaky steps forward as Erik half-jogs the rest of the distance and gathers Charles up into his arms.

“Charles,” he hears Erik breathe, his strong arms closing around him and Charles’ eyes start to water all over again as he holds on tightly as Erik crushes him to his chest, his hands fisted in the back of Charles’ shirt. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

It sounds like he’s trying to reassure himself as much as he is Charles, and Charles lets out a shuddering breath. He’s too exhausted to cry, but his lungs stutter in his chest just the same, and he buries his face in Erik’s shoulder for a moment and focuses on breathing.

“Hey, Charles,” Raven says gently after a few moments, and he can feel her hand smoothing up and down his back. Charles lifts his head, shifting back from Erik a little and Erik lets him go, allowing him to turn to Raven and hug her as well. “It’s okay,” Raven says as she squeezes him, her voice only a little choked up. “I’m so glad you’re alright.”

“Don’t cry,” Charles tells her, and he feels her laugh.

“Don’t tell me what to do, jerk,” she says. She carefully pulls back, pressing a small kiss to his cheek, and smoothing a hand through his hair. “Don’t ever scare me like this again. I’ve had enough surprises from you this week.”

“I’ll try,” Charles says faintly, and allows her to steer him back into Erik’s hold.

“Hey,” Erik says, wrapping his arms around Charles again. Charles rests his head on Erik’s shoulder, his face turned sideways into Erik’s neck. “Let’s go sit down.”

“Okay,” Charles agrees, dimly aware of the paramedics hovering around behind him. He goes along as Erik takes him back over to the ambulance, and they sit down side by side, Erik’s arm wrapped around his back and waist. One of the medics hands Erik a shiny shock blanket which Erik accepts, pulling it across Charles’ shoulders and wrapping it around his front too.

“Everyone else is a few blocks away,” Erik tells him quietly as the paramedics climb up into the truck to rattle around in the drawers behind them. “Blink transported me and Raven here so we wouldn’t look like we were rolling up to start a fight.”

Charles nods wearily. He has one arm around Erik’s waist too, head leaned on his shoulder again. “I just want to go home.”

“I’ll take you home,” Erik promises him softly.

“We really should take you to a hospital, sir,” one of the paramedics says, “you probably need a full blood workup, going by those needle injections in your arm.”

“I don’t want a ride in an ambulance,” Charles answers, feeling Erik stiffen beside him.

“Alright,” the woman answers reluctantly. “You’re responsible for checking yourself in.”

“I understand.”

“Don’t leave yet, though,” she adds, “Officer Muñoz wants to speak to you before you go anywhere.”

“Muñoz,” Erik says, raising his voice, and Armando looks over from where he stands talking to Raven. They both move in closer, Raven giving Charles an encouraging smile. “I want to take him home. Do you need a statement from him now?”

Armando considers, gaze flickering between them speculatively. “Dr. Xavier, do you want to go with him?”

“Yes.”

“I have to ask,” Armando says, holding up a hand when Erik narrows his eyes. “But alright. If you’re not letting the paramedics take you, you’re free to go. We’re treating this as a kidnapping and self-defense, so you’re not currently being charged with anything. I do need to interview you for your version of events, though, so you can either come in to the station tomorrow or give me an address where I can stop by.”

Erik rattles off their address before Charles can even look to him to ask. “Call Alex ahead of time so we know you’re coming.”

“Alright,” Armando says easily, unruffled. “You take care, Dr. Xavier. Don’t leave town until we’ve spoken.”

“Thank you,” Charles says, but his voice is thin with exhaustion so he’s not sure the full sentiment of how deeply grateful he currently feels is getting across.

Armando smiles, and gives him a nod. “Just doing my job. I have to say, though,” he says with a small laugh, “releasing a newly-recovered missing person back to the mob is a first.”

“Keep it off the books,” Erik advises coolly, and Armando laughs again.

“Don’t worry, we’ve already got everything down as a training exercise.” With one last wave, Armando moves off to regroup with his fellow officers.

“If you’re not staying, you’re gonna have to move,” the other paramedic says, “we’ve got some guys incoming.”

“Come on,” Erik says, and together he and Raven help get Charles back on his feet. They move over a few paces away just as another team of paramedics comes out of the building, pushing a stretcher with Barboza on top. Charles turns his face into Erik’s jacket but he can tell Erik is staring Barboza down.

“He’s not getting out of the hospital alive,” Raven says casually, her voice low enough not to carry.

“Don’t,” Charles says, his voice muffled. He’s not sure if he’s protesting his sister killing someone, or Barboza being killed at all. All he knows is he’s tired of violence.

Erik doesn’t comment, which isn’t always a good sign. Instead he pulls his phone out of his pocket and hits speed dial. “Bring one of the cars around.” He ends that call and immediately makes another. “Howlett. We’ve got him. Yes. Come by the house. Good.”

“Howlett?” Raven asks.

“Our doctor,” Charles says. “He’s, uh—he’s—” His head is all cottony, so muzzy it’s hard to force his thoughts into order. Eyes squeezed shut, he clutches at Erik’s jacket, wanting desperately to be in their home right now, to be safe behind locked doors.

“We trust him,” Erik fills in, his tone clipped. “He can look Charles over before we bring in anyone unnecessary from the outside.”

His hand on Charles’ back is gentle as they nudge him along toward the SUV that pulls up to the sidewalk. Alex is sitting in the driver’s seat, his face drawn and grim. When he sees Charles, he flashes him a grin and says quietly, “Hey, Prof. Good to see you.”

“It’s good to see you too, Alex,” Charles returns wearily, hoping he sounds sincere.

Erik has to boost him up into the SUV, weak as he is. Charles collapses into the seat and fumbles ineffectually with his seatbelt for a moment before it clips itself, courtesy of Erik’s powers. Erik settles in right next to him, his arm wrapping around Charles’ shoulders, and Raven follows afterward, closing the door behind her.

Charles isn’t aware of falling asleep on the way home, but the next thing he knows, Erik is shaking him gently awake. “Hey,” he says softly. “Let’s get you inside and have Logan look at you. Then you can sleep, alright?”

“Sleep sounds good,” Charles mumbles, blinking owlishly. He’ll take anything that will make him forget Barboza’s face and that room with Dr. Leoni.

Raven helps Charles down out of the SUV, holding him steady until Erik joins them. “I’m going to catch a ride,” she says, nodding at the car, “I need to wrap things up with my contacts and take care of a couple other things.”

“You’re not leaving New York, are you?” Charles asks, and Raven shakes her head.

“No, I’ll stay for now.” She gives him a swift hug, kissing him on the cheek again. “Get some rest. I’ll be in touch.” She glances at Erik and gives him a nod, and then climbs back into the car.

Erik walks Charles up the driveway, locks in the door turning as they approach. “Rosie will be happy to see you,” he says, helping Charles up one step at a time on the porch. “She’s missed all the treats you feed her.”

The moment Erik opens the door, Rosie comes rushing toward them, her entire rear end wagging as she leaps up to lick Charles’ face. He stumbles under her weight, but Erik catches them both and keeps them upright as Charles kisses Rosie’s face and hugs her tight, laughing as she wriggles in his arms. As soon as he realizes he’s smiling though, he freezes.

“Charles?” Erik asks, his grip on Charles’ arm tightening.

“Nothing,” Charles says faintly. “I’m just…surprised, that’s all. It feels weird to smile after…”

“After what happened,” Erik fills in softly. Charles doesn’t need his telepathy to feel Erik’s  concern washing off of him in waves. “Charles…”

He can hear the questions bubbling up in Erik’s voice, questions he’s not ready to answer. He’s not sure he’ll ever be ready to answer them, but he’s certainly, _certainly_ not ready to open up now.

Erik must sense it because he says only, “Logan will be here soon, you should sit down.”  

Charles closes his eyes briefly and reaches out for Erik’s hand. When he finds it, he squeezes it tightly and shudders when Erik squeezes his fingers back. “Thank you.”

They shuffle slowly to the living room, the _click-click_ of Rosie’s toenails against the hardwood floor trailing behind them. Thankfully it isn’t a long way because Charles’ knees give out two steps before they reach the couch. Erik catches him, swooping low to get his arm under the back of Charles’ knees before he can hit the floor, setting him down on the soft cushions. Immediately all the exhaustion of the last couple of days slams into Charles at once, and he hunches over, struggling to keep coherent and awake.

“Charles?”

“Is it alright if I sleep?” he mumbles. “Only until Logan comes. I’m just…really tired.”

Erik’s hand cards through his hair. “Of course. I’ll wake you up when Logan’s here.”

He would have fallen asleep sitting up right there, but Erik eases him down on the couch and slides one of the throw pillows underneath his head. The instant Charles closes his eyes, he begins to drift off. Dimly, he’s aware of Erik draping a blanket over him, and of Rosie hopping up and curling up on his legs. Then he feels Erik’s big, warm palm against the side of his face, and he’s out.

 


	9. Chapter 9

 

Logan arrives barely five minutes after Charles passes out, but Erik doesn’t wake Charles immediately. Instead, he lets Logan in, takes him to the kitchen, and restlessly shoves a beer into his hands. Logan raises an eyebrow at the bottle and says, “No offense but this is weird.”

“What?”

“You, offering me a beer.” The doctor nods his head toward the living room. “Thought I was here to take a look at Chuck. Sounded urgent.”

Erik nods, arms folded. He half-wishes he had a drink of his own right now, but he needs to remain clear-headed. There’s still so much to be done. “He’s sleeping. He’s been…” Erik takes a slow, trembling breath. “It’s been a long two days.”

Logan eyes him shrewdly. For such a brute, the man can be annoyingly astute. “What happened?” he asks quietly, dropping his usual gruffness. “Do you know?”

Erik shakes his head. “I don’t know details. He was kidnapped two days ago by one of my rivals. God only knows what they did to him.”

“Injuries?”

“He has track marks on his arm,” Erik forces out. “But other than that, I don’t know.”

“Any idea what they shot him up with?”

“No.”

“Okay.” Logan considers that for a moment, frowning. “Okay. I’ll do my best, but keep in mind that I’m a surgeon, okay? I’m not some all-purpose doc who can work miracles.”

“I’m not asking for miracles. I just want to know if he’s okay.”

“And if he’s not?”  

Erik’s lips thin. “Then fix him.”

Logan shakes his head in mild exasperation. “Alright. Let’s see him.”

Erik leads him into the living room. Rosie lifts her head from where she’s curled down by Charles’ feet, ears perked. “ _Platz_ ,” Erik commands her softly, tugging on her collar gently to get her to hop down. She goes, padding over to Logan to sniff at his fingers while Erik sits down on the edge of the couch beside Charles.

Charles’ brow is furrowed, tight and tense even in sleep. Erik hates to wake him up when he’s so clearly exhausted, but Logan needs to look at him. Then Erik can get Charles into the bedroom and get him wrapped up in the duvet where he can sleep for a week, if that’s what it’ll take. He just wants Charles to be okay.

“Charles,” he says softly, brushing Charles’ grimy hair back off his forehead gently. “Logan’s here, _schatz_.”

Without opening his eyes, Charles hunches his shoulders, making the blanket ride up higher. He murmurs something, the words pitched too low and too slurred together for Erik to make out. The absence of Charles’ telepathy in Erik’s head while Charles is right in front of him is frightening.

“I know you’re tired,” Erik whispers, still stroking his hair, “but you just need to stay awake for a little while longer. Come on, Charles.”

Slowly, Charles peels his eyes open. “Erik?”

“I’m here. Can you sit up?”

“I…think so.”

With Erik’s help, he pushes himself up. He looks worse now than he had just half an hour ago; sweat beads along his forehead, and he’s shivering, even underneath the blanket Erik had wrapped him in. His eyes are glazed as they turn up toward Logan.

“Hey, Chuck,” Logan says, dropping his medical bag. “Just gonna take a look at you, okay?”

When Charles nods listlessly, Erik moves back so Logan can take his place in front of Charles. The doctor pulls out a penlight and then pauses. “You okay with having him here, Chuck?”

Erik doesn’t realize who Logan’s talking about until Charles darts a glance at him. Eyes narrowing, he starts to growl a retort, but before he can, Charles says, “No.”

Shocked, Erik turns to him. “Charles—”

“I just want to talk to Logan,” Charles says, curling in on himself. He doesn’t meet Erik’s eyes. “Please, Erik.”

“You heard the man,” Logan says firmly. “You can wait somewhere else.”

“Don’t _touch_ me,” Erik snarls when Logan moves toward him. He stares at Charles’ bowed head and tries to ignore the roiling of his stomach. It never occurred to him Charles might want him to leave. What did Barboza do to him? What happened that he doesn’t want Erik to know?

After a tense silence, Charles reaches out and takes Erik’s hand. Pressing a kiss to his knuckles, Charles says tremulously, “Please, Erik. I’ll tell you everything later, just…give me some space right now. Please.”

With difficulty, Erik bites back his remaining protests. “Alright. I’ll be down the hall.” He brushes Charles’ cheek gently and shoots a look at Logan. “Make sure he’s okay.”

After the doctor nods, Erik reluctantly retreats to the study with Rosie and settles behind his desk. He’s going to need something to distract him, so he might as well check up on his people and see what’s developed in the last hour or so. He needs to see what the NYPD’s uncovered, get in touch with Angel to figure out where everyone is, and contact Mystique to make sure there are no surprises on that front. He wants to get eyes on Barboza on the hospital as well, and track down Guerrero. The man might still be a threat, especially with Erik’s deal with Barboza now in shambles. Barboza might have been aiming to betray Erik this whole time, which means whatever intel he passed along about Guerrero is suspect. They’ll have to reexamine the whole situation, see what’s credible and what’s not.

Scrubbing the weariness from his face, Erik picks up his phone and dials Azazel first.

Azazel answers on the first ring. “You find him?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“Alive,” Erik says, and Azazel breathes out a relieved oath in Russian.

“Good,” he says gruffly. Never one to be overly sentimental, his voice turns businesslike at once. “Does Barboza live?”

“Yes.”

“I thought he might, with the cops involved,” Azazel says, with a small hint of distaste. He hadn’t liked Alex’s idea at all, but had swallowed his arguments gracefully enough. “Where are the cops holding him?”

“The hospital, for now,” Erik says. He puts a hand on Rosie’s head when she comes over to sit by him, stroking her slowly. “I don’t think we’ll have to worry about him. Mystique will make sure he doesn’t get out alive.”

“You _must_ introduce me to her,” Azazel says for the fourth or fifth time now. He’s been intrigued ever since he heard the news of Mystique being Charles’ estranged sister. “But no share for you? I thought you would want to take a chunk out of him, Erik.”

“I have no doubt Mystique will not make his passing easy, which is enough,” Erik answers. “I want Guerrero.”

“Of course,” Azazel says. “I’ll contact Angel and take it from here, shall I? I am sure you are busy.”

“Very.” Erik’s glad to delegate it out to his top lieutenant. Being confined to a hospital bed won’t stop Azazel from being efficient, and Erik will be able to concentrate better on Charles.

“I will follow up in the morning with you, yes? Take care of Charles. And get some rest yourself.”

“Mm,” Erik grunts and hangs up the phone. His next call is to Alex.

“Press still don’t have a single whiff of anything,” Alex says as soon as he answers, “so the cops kept their word.”

“I made a sizeable donation to the precinct, so they had better.”

“Yeah. Other than Barboza’s people, they bagged some doctor lady. She didn’t seem mob to me, but Dar—Muñoz wouldn’t let me talk to her. She was bawling her eyes out, though.”

Erik thinks of the dark bruises and track marks on the underside of Charles’ arms. “Keep a birdie on her. If they release her, I want her.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Alex says, blowing out a puff of air. “You want us to do a sweep once the cops are gone?”

“No,” Erik decides, “it’ll be a waste of time. They’ll have bagged anything of interest. See what else you can learn from Muñoz and then pack it up.” He knows his people are all exhausted, running on fumes by this point after two long days of searching for Charles nonstop. No one had complained once.

“Gotcha.”

Erik’s just ended the call when a sharp spark of telepathy hits him, slamming him with a rush of fear so potent he bangs his knee on his desk when he shoots up to his feet. Biting out a curse, Erik hobbles his first couple steps but then picks up speed, rushing out of his study and back down the hall to the living room, Rosie hot on his heels.

“What’s going on?” he demands, gaze sweeping across Charles first, checking him over quickly for any signs of injury, before settling on Logan with a glare.

Charles is pressed back against the couch, white as a sheet and shaking as if he’s just come in from a blizzard. “Nothing. Sorry. It’s fine.”

“I’ve gotta draw some blood, Chuck,” Logan says, but he sounds apologetic. He looks to Erik, his expression grim. “Before you ask, yes, it’s necessary.”

Charles shakes his head, staring at the clean syringe Logan holds in one hand. “No more needles, _please_.” His voice wavers, inches from cracking.

Swallowing down a sick feeling in his gut, Erik moves over to sink down beside him. To his relief Charles leans into him at once, allowing Erik to get an arm around him. His telepathy has gone back down to being nonexistent, ashes of the fire totally burnt out at last. “Look at me, Charles.”

Reluctantly, Charles turns his head to look up at him. His eyes are still glassy, bloodshot and red-rimmed with his pupils blown twice their normal size. There are fresh tear tracks down his cheeks, and from this angle, Erik can see the dark bruises on his throat are perfectly finger-shaped. It makes Erik want to put a hole in the wall.

“Howlett’s only taking blood out,” Erik says, reaching around him to pat the couch. Rosie takes the invitation at once, squeezing past Logan’s knees and hopping up, immediately lying down in Charles’ lap. Erik gently picks up one of Charles’ arms and lays it across her back, palm up so the underside of his arm is exposed. He strokes his thumb gently over the crease of Charles’ elbow. “He’s not putting anything inside you.”

Charles takes a shaky breath but nods. He’s still trembling. “Just do it,” he says, voice brittle.

“Just keep looking at me,” Erik tells him, and gives Logan a nod. With his other hand he finds Charles’ free hand and allows Charles to grip him tightly, and Charles squeezes his fingers as Logan swabs his arm and slides the thick syringe into a vein. “After this do you want to take a shower? Or a bath? Or just go to bed?”

“You’ll feel better if you get clean first, bub,” Logan advises quietly as he slowly draws blood.

“I just want to sleep,” Charles says. Erik can tell he wants to yank his arm away from Logan badly so Erik continues to stroke the crease of his elbow gently, grateful Rosie is staying obediently still.

“Okay,” he agrees, “as soon as Logan is done, you can sleep.”

“All set,” Logan says, sliding the needle carefully back out of Charles’ arm, syringe full of blood. Charles jerks his arm off Rosie’s back immediately, tucking it tightly up against his chest.

“You need him for anything else?” Erik asks Logan, gently reaching down to wipe the small trickle of blood on Charles’ arm away with one thumb.

“No,” Logan says, fiddling with the syringe in order to properly store it. “I need to bring this back to my practice so I can run a few tests before I can do anything more.”

“Wait here,” Erik tells him, standing, and Logan nods. “ _Platz_ , Rosie.” Rosie scrambles down off Charles’ lap at once, and Erik helps lever Charles carefully to his feet. Charles moves stiffly, like his body has aged seventy years, and Erik has to support him all the way back to their bedroom.

He makes Charles sit on the edge of their bed while he ducks into their bathroom to run a washcloth under warm water for a couple minutes, wringing it out once. Rosie has hopped up next to Charles when Erik returns, sitting directly beside him solemnly, and Erik doesn’t have the heart to tell her to get down.

“Here,” he says, giving the washcloth to Charles, “this will feel good on your face. I’ll get you a change of clothes too.”

Charles nods blearily, eyes barely open, but he takes the washcloth. Erik lifts a hand to close all the blinds and draw all the curtains, plunging the room into a soft darkness, broken only by the mid-afternoon sunlight creeping in through the cracks.

“No,” Charles says abruptly, slightly panicked, “leave one of the blinds open.”

Erik flicks open the blinds on the largest window immediately, increasing the brightness in the room at once. “Sorry,” he says gently, mentally kicking himself. He should’ve asked. “I can leave them all open if you want.”

“This is fine,” Charles says quietly, wiping his face mechanically with the washcloth.

“Alright.” Erik hesitates for a second longer, and then moves over to their closet to dig out a fresh pair of boxers and a clean t-shirt. He picks one of his own older shirts, worn and soft from countless washes, because he knows Charles likes to steal them occasionally to sleep in. Maybe right now it will be comforting.

Getting Charles out of his dirty, stained shirt and boxers takes coordination on both of their parts, Erik acting basically as a brace while Charles peels himself out of the clothes. Erik helps him into the clean ones, silently thanking every entity that may exist that Charles isn’t shying away from his touch, that at least the rest of Charles’ body aside from his wrists and throat appears unharmed, his skin soft and pale as always.

Erik helps Charles slide over to the center of the bed, lifting the duvet for him and then tucking it down around him as soon as he’s lying down. Rosie curls up beside him, and Erik reaches over to pat her on the head as he leans down to kiss Charles’ brow.

“I’ll be back in,” Erik promises, even though Charles’ eyes had drifted shut as soon as his head hit the pillow, “sleep as long as you want.”

Charles makes a small sound Erik takes to mean agreement, but then he drops off immediately, out like a light.

Erik stays by the bed a few moments longer, staring down at Charles and wrestling with the hot, tight feeling in his chest. Charles is going to be fine. He’s safe now. He’s back with Erik where he belongs.

He tosses the washcloth into the hamper but Charles’ dirty clothes go straight into the trash. Charles isn’t going to want to wear them ever again. Then Erik gathers himself, composing his face into something calm and unreadable before heading back out to talk to Logan. He leaves the bedroom door slightly ajar, so if Charles wakes up he’ll know he’s not locked in.

Logan’s not in the living room but Erik finds him in the kitchen, leaned against the counter and halfway through the beer Erik had offered him earlier. His eyes follow Erik as Erik walks over to the fridge and pulls out one for himself, popping the cap off with his powers and taking a short sip.

“Well?”

“Doctor-patient confidentiality, bub,” Logan says, but he sounds tired.

“We live together. I’m his significant other.”

“Has you down as his emergency contact, does he?”

“As a matter of fact,” Erik says tightly. He leans against the cabinets opposite from where Logan stands, and takes another drink. He feels like he needs something a little stronger than beer right now, but his good whiskey is all the way back in his study. “What did they shoot him up with?”

“Heroin, definitely, for starters,” Logan says quietly. “Gonna have to monitor him to make sure he hasn’t developed a lowkey addiction.”

Heroin. Erik takes another drink. He’d expected as much; heroin is a favorite for kidnappers in the business to keep their hostages high as kites to make them pliable and manageable. There’s no telling what heroin would do to Charles’ telepathy, though, or how much it would fuck his head up. Charles had explained it to him once, about how as a telepath his brain chemistry is slightly different from the rest of the population, including other mutants. Erik had paid attention at the time, but now he wishes he’d committed it to exact memory.

“And?” he makes himself ask, because while there’s no doubt heroin isn’t good for Charles, it can’t have been the only thing they injected him with. Heroin by itself couldn’t make Charles look like he’s been through a mental meatgrinder.

Logan breathes out a long puff of air. “And I don’t know. That’s what the blood sample is for. Chuck doesn’t know what they shot him up with, only that it was a lot of different shit.”

“Different—?” Erik’s fingers clench around the neck of the beer bottle. “Were they— _testing_ shit on him?”

“Seems to be so,” Logan says. There’s an undercurrent of anger in his voice too. “Said they wanted to develop a sort of cure for telepathy. He was their guinea pig.”

For a long moment, Erik can’t speak. He can’t even see properly, rage making his vision cloudy and sparse. Live mutant testing is a controversy of the not-so-distant past, and only in the last ten to fifteen years have legislations been introduced and voted into legitimacy to make it as illegal as experimenting on regular humans is. The thought of Charles being subjected to unknown drugs to wipe his telepathy out is sickening, and it takes every last ounce of Erik’s control not to shred the entire house apart.

Instead he summons his phone into his hand, flying it all the way out from where he’d left it in his study. Logan takes another long drink of his beer as Erik dials.

“What?” Mystique says when she answers. “Did something happen with Charles? Otherwise I’m busy right now.”

“They used him as a test subject for a mutant cure.”

Erik can’t see Mystique, and doesn’t even know where she currently is, but he can tell by the silence over the line the way she’s gone completely still. “I see,” she says after a pause, her voice perfectly inflectionless.

“I don’t care what you do to Barboza,” Erik says through gritted teeth, “he’s all yours. Just make sure his head ends up on a stick where everyone in the business can see it.”

“Normally I don’t take orders,” Raven says coolly, “but in this case, consider it done.” The line goes dead.

“Cops are gonna know it was you,” Logan says casually after Erik puts his phone down on the counter. “Or at least Summers’ little boyfriend is gonna put two and two together.”

“They won’t have any proof,” Erik says icily.

Logan inclines his head in acknowledgement. He drains the rest of his beer, setting the empty bottle down with a sharp click. “I’m gonna head out. This blood needs to get into the lab before it goes bad. I’ll be back as soon as I know what kind of antibiotics he needs. I don’t need to tell you to get him to a hospital if he starts to crash in the meantime.”

Erik gestures him out and Logan goes, picking up his medical bag and showing himself out the front door. Once he’s gone and Erik has fused the lock in the door back into place, Erik remains in the kitchen for a few long minutes, trying to get his seething anger in order before he goes back into the bedroom. Charles doesn’t need Erik hovering over him when he’s this angry, but then again it’s not like Charles can even use his telepathy right now anyway.

Erik hurls his bottle against the far wall where it hits and explodes with a loud shatter, shards of glass flying everywhere and beer splashing out across the paint and tile floor.

Unsurprisingly, it doesn’t make him feel any better.

 

*

 

Charles closes his eyes as the warm water slowly pours down over his head, even though Erik’s put a hand on Charles’ forehead to block most of it from trickling down his face. He keeps them closed for a few moments longer, willing the dark shadows creeping up into the corners of his vision to disappear.

“Then what happened?” he asks when he finally cracks his eyes open, the bathroom swimming back into view. The warm water is like a balm on his aching body—every part of him is sore, like he’d spent the weekend wrestling with five people all three times his size. He’s propped up against the gentle curve of the huge tub, soap bubbles slowly shrinking as time wears on.

“Then you called,” Erik says simply. He dunks his hands in the water to wash off the remaining shampoo. Only a few minutes ago, his fingers had been massaging Charles’ scalp, lathering up his hair for the third time while Charles practically melted beneath him. He sits on the floor outside of the tub, lounged against the tub’s wall and seemingly uncaring about how uncomfortable the tile floor must be. “You know the rest from there.”

Charles makes a small sound of agreement. He’d asked Erik to fill him in on what had happened in the past two days while he’d been missing. It makes him feel slightly better, slightly more grounded, because otherwise his own memories are a giant nightmarish hole.

Erik slides his hand along Charles’ shoulder, the water lapping gently against the sides of the tub. “Again?” he asks, glancing at the bottle of shampoo.

“No,” Charles decides after a pause. “Officer Muñoz will be here soon, right?”

“Still plenty of time,” Erik assures him quietly. He has one elbow resting on the edge of the tub, and he puts his chin down on his arm, studying Charles while continuing to stroke his shoulder slowly. The humidity in the bathroom has made one tiny curl of hair flop down onto his forehead endearingly, making Erik look soft and younger than he actually is.

“I’ll get out soon anyway,” Charles says. “I’m already starting to prune.”

“And then some lunch?” Erik asks casually, thumb swiping slowly across Charles’ collarbone.

“It’s nearly 3 o’clock.”

“Afternoon tea, then,” Erik says, a little dryly.

Charles almost smiles, and he can tell Erik almost smiles back, but the expression fades before it fully forms. Charles looks away, pretending to take an interest in the faucet at the other end of the tub. He isn’t sure how he’s supposed to be acting. They’re both trying to stay normal, and pretend like everything’s fine. Like it’s just another Tuesday of Charles sleeping until one in the afternoon.

But then he’ll slip up, and get too quiet, or Erik’s expression will twist, and they’ll both be instantly reminded of how hard they’re trying to pretend. Charles will start seeing the shadows again, the ones that move in the corners of his eyes as if they’re alive, and he can tell Erik, who despite how endlessly patient and gentle he’s being, doesn’t know what to do.

What to say, because Charles won’t let Erik apologize. Just the thought makes him feel ill. He volunteered for this. Erik didn’t make him do anything. Charles can bear the consequences, and Erik shouldn’t have to feel guilty about it.

“I know you must be hungry,” Erik says eventually. “You need something solid in you, even if it’s crackers.”

“Okay,” Charles agrees, and he hears Erik exhale softly in relief. At least he thinks it’s relief. It’s strange to have to guess what Erik’s thinking or feeling by body language alone, since his telepathy is still completely gone.

Charles shivers, even in the warm water, and the shadows get a little taller. He doesn’t know if his telepathy is going to come back. Logan had stopped by earlier this morning, when Charles was still asleep, and had hooked Charles up to an IV of antibiotics to begin helping flush any remnants of the drugs out of Charles’ system. Charles trusts Logan to know what he’s doing, but he doesn’t know if his telepathy has just been extended to its limits after 48 hours of who knows how many suppression drugs and will return in time, or if it’s been wiped out completely, his brain chemistry unchangeably altered.

“Shh,” Erik breathes out when Charles’ breath hitches, “it’s alright. It’s alright.”

“I’m fine,” Charles says, sitting up abruptly enough to make the water in the tub slosh back and forth. He leans forward and reaches down through the soapy water to twist the plug, and it all begins to go down the drain with a loud gurgle.

Erik’s large hand rests on Charles’ lower back. Earlier when Charles had first settled down into the hot water, Erik had taken their bar of soap and smoothed it over every inch of Charles’ skin, rubbing away the sweat and grime. “I’ll help you up.”

“Thank you,” Charles says, and accepts the extra boost up to his feet.

Erik has a fluffy towel waiting for him, and once Charles stands dripping on the bathroom rug he wraps Charles up in it like it’s a blanket. Despite himself Charles wants to laugh, but he doesn’t have the energy for it. He settles for quirking a small, fleeting smile that Erik returns, tentative at first, but then growing steadier as Charles holds still and allows Erik to help dry him off.

It feels good, to have Erik’s hands on him. Erik would never hurt him.

Rosie waits just outside the bathroom door, stubby tail wagging madly as soon as they emerge. She licks Charles’ hand and noses at his towel, as if she suspects he’s hiding a treat underneath, and Erik rolls his eyes as he gently nudges her back.

Given the choice Charles would probably crawl into the comfiest clothes he owns—an old, faded Oxford t-shirt from undergrad and a pair of sweatpants that used to belong to Erik, which he has to roll the ankles a few times to make them short enough—but while he’s able to pull on the sweatpants, the IV in his arm makes it impossible to put on a regular shirt. Erik instead carefully lifts the antibiotic bag off the pole and helps Charles maneuver into one of the hospital gowns Logan brought over, tying the back for him so it doesn’t slip off.

“Good?” Erik asks him, one hand slowly trailing down Charles’ spine.

“Thank you,” Charles answers, leaning into him for a moment. “I’ll be out in a moment.”

“Okay,” Erik says, and coaxes Rosie out of the room.

Charles stays where he is for a moment, one hand on the IV pole to keep his balance when he feels himself sway a little. He feels sluggish and heavy, weighed down by drugs—benevolent though the antibiotics may be—and the disconcerting silence in his head. Before he can space out for too long, he gives his damp hair one last scrub with the towel and drops it into the hamper. He can hear Erik clattering around in the kitchen so Charles follows the noise, wheeling the IV pole along with himself. It feels good to be clean, dressed in warm, soft clothes, at home with Erik and Rosie.

_You were only gone two days_ , he reminds himself as he comes to a stop on the threshold of the kitchen. It certainly feels like he was gone longer, though. It’s strange, because when he’d been out of his mind on drugs he thought it’d only lasted a night, but now it seems more like a week. Or a month.

“Try the orange juice,” Erik advises without turning around, bringing Charles out of his daze. He’s currently prodding at something in a pot on the stove, and Charles realizes he probably started cooking something back while they were still in the bathroom, manipulating all of their stainless steel utensils from afar. Charles hadn’t been able to feel the razor focus of Erik’s mind without his telepathy. The reminder of its absence makes him swallow hard.

“Angel brought it by this morning,” Erik continues. “Said it was from her favorite farmer’s market. The sugar will be good for you.”

Charles wanders closer. Rosie sits at Erik’s feet, ears perked up at attention, watching him intently for any signs of being given food. “Does orange juice even go with—” he peers around Erik at the pot, and blinks when he realizes what Erik’s making. “—boxed mac ’n cheese, really?”

“I know your weakness for it,” Erik says, shooting him a quick smile. “And I don’t know. Probably not. You don’t have to drink it if you don’t want to.”

He goes back to stirring in the fake cheese that’s probably too high in sodium to be considered remotely edible by normal standards. Charles wants to reply, but somehow his voice has gotten caught in his throat, a heavy lump. He wishes he had his telepathy back, because with it words wouldn’t be necessary. He could slide into Erik’s mind and curl up there, pressing everything he’s feeling for Erik right now so Erik would know.

Instead Charles steps up behind him, wrapping his arms around Erik and resting his forehead on the middle of Erik’s back. Erik keeps stirring, but one of his arms comes up to rest on top of Charles’, holding them in place. They stay like that, quiet, for a few moments.

“You have a wet spot on the front of your shirt,” Charles says at last.

“It’s from the tub,” Erik answers. His body is comfortingly solid in Charles’ arms, whipcord lean with undeniable strength. “I’ll change before Muñoz gets here.”

“No, I think he should see you like this for once,” Charles says, slowly sliding his arms back. Erik lets him go, and Charles moves over to get a pair of bowls down from the cupboard, navigating carefully with the IV pole. “Good for personal moral, to see the city’s top criminal in an old t-shirt and basketball shorts instead of a tailored suit.”

“You like the suits,” Erik answers, and while his voice is light there’s also a slight edge to his tone Charles can’t decipher.

“I like the suits,” Charles agrees simply. He’s not in the mood to push. When he sets the bowls on the counter, he has to blink several times to clear the shadows away. “Can we eat on the back deck? The sun will feel good.”

“Of course,” Erik says, and the edge is gone now.

He flicks off the stove and divvies out the mac ’n cheese into the bowls, meticulously ensuring the portions are equal. Charles grabs a couple of forks and they go out onto the back deck together, pulling up chairs at the outdoor table. Erik sits in the shade but Charles sits right next to him in the sun, closing his eyes again for a moment and soaking up the warmth on his skin.

On any other day it would be highly amusing to watch Erik stoically soldiering his way through mac n cheese that came out of a box, but today Charles merely pulls his own bowl towards himself and pokes the orange noodles with his fork listlessly. He’s desperately hungry but at the same time he’s not sure anything will sit well with his stomach right now.

Erik reaches over and settles a hand on Charles’ forearm, the one without a needle and tube poking out of it. “Just eat what you can.”

Charles nods, spearing three noodles and carefully eating them. Once he’s swallowed and nothing drastic happens, his stomach not so much as twinging, he scoops up a few more.

For a few minutes they sit together in silence. Charles picks at his bowl, hardly making a dent in his portion even though it feels like he’s eaten a lot, and watches Rosie patrol around the backyard, inspecting her territory. Erik polishes off his bowl quickly and answers a few messages on his phone, his hand still a solid, comforting weight on Charles’ arm.

“What happens now?” Charles asks, and Erik looks up at him at once. “The deal with Barboza is broken. Now Guerrero has us backed into a corner again.”

“On the contrary,” Erik says with a grim smile, “Guerrero seems to have fled the city again. As of last night and this morning, we’ve dismantled Barboza’s entire syndicate. I’ve absorbed a few of his assets and installed my people, and the rest I’ve graciously sold off to a few other groups. Guerrero doesn’t have any channels to use to get back into the city anymore, since it was Barboza allowing him to come through his in the first place. And if he tries anyway, we’ll know this time.”

“Good,” Charles says, real relief washing through him. Erik is safe.

Erik takes a long, deep breath. “This was a pointed attack on me, and on you, Charles,” he says slowly. “Through the process of taking apart Barboza’s empire we found enough evidence to indicate their plan was to nab you from the start.”

Charles puts his fork down, staring at the patio. “To use me as a guinea pig.”

“Yes,” Erik says, voice inflectionless. “Does the name Trask mean anything to you?”

Charles tries to think. The name seems familiar somehow, but when he tries to think back past yesterday afternoon, everything is foggy. “I don’t know. I don’t remember.”

“We think he may be Guerrero’s backer,” Erik says. “We’re looking into it. But...it’s not good, Charles. You remember six months ago, when Guerrero shot you? He displayed mutant-like abilities even though before he claimed to be a baseline. You said yourself that sudden manifestation in adults is rare, so either he’s really in that point-oh-three percentile or he’s been hiding his powers all along.”

“You think he wants to make a cure,” Charles says. “Whether he’s been a mutant all along or not, you think he wants to get rid of his powers.”

“Yes,” Erik says, clearly disgusted. “It makes sense. Guerrero’s organization has never been overly mutant-friendly, so it’s not a stretch to imagine he’s a bigot.”

“Why...why test it on me?” Charles says, his voice getting a little shaky before he makes himself take another breath. “Why go through all the trouble to test it on me personally? I’m not that important, in the grand scheme of things. I’m not a mob boss, and until now most people weren’t even aware you had a telepath in your syndicate in the first place. They could’ve grabbed _anyone_ who’s a mutant off the street instead of going through that entire scheme to get to me.”

“You’re important to _me_ ,” Erik says quietly, and Charles lifts his head to meet his gaze. “Guerrero’s been trying to take me out for years now. It’s become personal for him. And you know better than anyone else about the stigma on telepaths. They think you’re more of a threat to them based on what you can do, and what they fear I would have you do to them.”

Charles rubs the base of one palm against his thigh, up and down. “I still can’t feel my telepathy,” he says, the words sharp like glass in his mouth.

“I know,” Erik says, because of course he knows, of course he’s noticed how Charles isn’t dipping casually in and out of his head. He sits up in his chair so he can lean forward, the hand on Charles’ arm sliding up so he can get an arm around Charles’ shoulders instead, pulling him close. “It’s going to be okay. Give it time.”

Lips pressed tightly together, Charles doesn’t answer. _What if it never comes back?_ he thinks to himself, silent in his own head. His telepathy has been a part of him for as long as he can remember. Its absence now feels like a gaping hole in his mind, jagged at the edges and painful to reach for. He can’t imagine living without it forever. Barboza tore a chunk out of him, and he’s _terrified_ he won’t heal.

“Charles?”

He looks up. “Yeah?”

Erik’s studying his expression closely. “You looked far away there for a second.”

“Yeah, I…” Charles laughs shakily, humorlessly. “I just need some time I guess. To process all this.”

“You’ll have as much time as you need.”

“It’s not over.” Charles’ mouth pinches. “It’ll never be over, will it?” Erik will always have enemies looking for ways to take him apart. He and Erik will never be able to let down their guard because a moment of inattention could mean death and destruction. The thought is exhausting. He never realized before how utterly draining it could be, being with Erik, but he feels it now. He feels the knot of fear in his chest and knows it will never go away.

“No,” Erik says softly. “It won’t.”

“I signed up for this,” Charles says after a moment, because he knows what Erik will say next. They’ve had this conversation enough times before that Charles doesn’t need his telepathy to predict Erik’s thought process. “I’m not leaving you. Especially not now.”

Erik lets out a slow breath. “You always say that, but I wouldn’t blame you. In fact, I’d pay you to leave, if that was what you wanted. You could go to Colorado, or to California. Back to England. I’d send you anywhere you wanted.”

Normally he’d be exasperated by the offer, but this time...well, he can’t deny that getting away from all this for a while sounds nice. But not permanently. Erik has always made him feel safe, and the thought of forsaking that sense of security is more than a little frightening. Especially when he knows just what Erik’s enemies are capable of.

Besides, he could never leave Erik. He loves Erik, plain and simple. That’s never changed.

He takes Erik’s hand and squeezes it. “There’s nowhere else I want to be except right here with you.”

Erik gives him a searching look. “Even now?”

“Especially now.”

Erik lets out a slightly unsteady breath, a myriad of complicated emotions Charles doesn’t know how to read flickering through his eyes. “Okay,” he says, but there’s already something wistful in his voice, “okay.”

“I can’t make you believe me,” Charles says softly, “but it’s what I want, Erik.”

Erik leans into Charles, and Charles slides both arms around him, holding onto him as Erik buries his face in the small hollow of Charles’ neck and throat. “You know I’ll always want you with me,” he says, the words barely audible. Charles knows this is something Erik wouldn’t normally say out loud. “You know I’ll always want what you want.”

Closing his eyes, Charles presses a small kiss to Erik’s hair. He knows Erik would let him go, if Charles wanted to leave. They’ve come a long way from the earlier days of their association.

It’s warm in the sun, to the point where Charles is starting to feel hot in his sweatpants. But it feels good to have the sun on his face and Erik in his arms. They stay like that, breathing quietly together, until Erik’s phone on the table gives a quiet buzz.

“Muñoz is on his way,” Erik says, pulling away gently. “You ready to talk?”

Charles nods. He’s as ready as he’ll ever be.

They leave Rosie roaming the yard and go back inside. While Erik takes their dishes and dumps them in the sink, Charles moves into the dining room, settling himself down in one of the chairs with his IV next to him. He’d prefer curling up on the couch, but that feels a little too informal. Erik’s probably already pushed his luck enough with the police’s tolerance, by making them take Charles’ statement from here instead of down at the station. He puts his hands flat on the table’s polished surface, wondering how long this is supposed to take.

Erik slides into the room, setting a cup of tea down in front of Charles. He’s changed out of his casual clothes into a pair of jeans too tailored to be anything but designer, with a casual suit jacket he’s opted to leave open, no tie or cufflinks in sight. “You’re eating dinner later,” he warns, and Charles can’t help but stop him, pulling him down into a kiss, slow and sweet. Erik’s mouth is soft and warm, one hand lifting to cradle Charles’ face.

Out in the yard, Rosie suddenly barks, and a moment later there’s a knock on the front door. Erik pulls back from Charles reluctantly, but he quirks a small, brief smile. “Stay here, I’ll let him in.”

While Erik goes to answer the door, Charles swallows down a mouthful of tea. It’s his favorite brew, the temperature perfect and the scent calming. Erik does know him best.

“Afternoon, Dr. Xavier,” Armando says as Erik leads him into the dining room. He isn’t in his uniform today, dressed in casual khaki slacks and a polo shirt neatly tucked in. His gun is strapped to his belt at his hip. “It’s good to see you looking better.”

Charles gets up to shake his hand. “I am,” he says simply as they settle at the table. He’s better than yesterday, which is all Armando needs to know. “Thank you again for agreeing to come here.”

“Of course,” Armando says easily, “only the best service for Mr. Lehnsherr.” He sounds amused, and it suddenly occurs to Charles how strange this entire meeting is—a police officer, a mob boss, and a civilian, sitting down at a table together, each all perfectly aware of what the other is. Charles also realizes how homey the house must look, to a sharp-eyed policeman; if Armando was suspicious about the exact nature of Charles’ relationship to Erik before, this all but confirms it.

“I’m ready when you are,” Charles says, aware of Erik watching him, and Armando nods.

“Let’s get started, then,” he says calmly, “but first, Mr. Lehnsherr, I’m going to have to ask you to step out of the room.”

“I don’t mind if he stays,” Charles says when Erik lifts an eyebrow—Charles feels more ready than he did yesterday for Erik to hear what happened to him—but Armando gives him a rueful smile.

“I have to follow protocol,” he says, gaze flickering between them both, cataloging and observing. “You might word things differently, intentionally or not, if Mr. Lehnsherr is sitting here listening.”

“I’ll be outside,” Erik says smoothly, rising to his feet. He gives Charles a small nod and then leaves. The sliding glass door in the kitchen leading out into the backyard opens and shuts.

“Do you live here, Dr. Xavier?” Armando asks him, casual and polite. His eyes drift briefly across the IV but then settle attentively on Charles’ face.

“Yes,” Charles answers. “Please call me Charles, too.”

“Charles,” Armando says with a nod. “Is this your house, or Mr. Lehnsherr’s?”

“It’s Erik’s house,” Charles says, and because he has a feeling he knows where this is going, he adds, “We live here together. I moved in under my own free will, and I don’t need help getting out.”

Armando grins. “Thank you for being so candid, Charles. You know I have to ask.”

“Of course.”

“Do you work for Mr. Lehnsherr?”

“I teach at the university,” Charles answers, calm but bland.

“Were you aware of Mr. Lehnsherr’s occupation before you moved in together?”

“Erik has always been honest and upfront with me,” Charles says. “I knew what he does from the first day we met.”

“Okay,” Armando says agreeably. “I don’t mean to insult your intelligence, Charles. I know you’re a telepath. But I have to be thorough.”

“I understand.” Charles regards him curiously. “You’re not writing anything down.”

Armando taps his temple. “My mutation can give me perfect photographic memory if I need it to, which is useful for taking statements or conducting interviews. I’ll transcribe our entire conversation verbatim back at the station. If you don’t trust me, I can go get a recording device instead if that will make you more comfortable.”

“No,” Charles says, shaking his head, “it’s fine. You have a very amazing mutation.”

Armando smiles. “Thank you. So, would you like to walk me through what happened on Friday night? How they grabbed you, where they took you, and all that.”

Charles takes a deep breath, and then begins. He leaves out how he _was_ working for Erik, and had originally willingly gone with Barboza’s thugs as part of a deal. Earlier when Charles was in the bathtub Erik had explained how they’d reported him missing as a simple kidnapping case, a consequence of an ongoing feud between Erik and Barboza. Charles keeps it simple, saying he was grabbed on his way home from the university and drugged.

It makes him slightly guilty, to be lying to the police, but he doesn’t want to get either himself or Erik arrested. He’s selfish enough to want that much. It makes him realize just how easy it is for him to cross lines for Erik; something he knows he’d never do on account for anyone else.

“When I woke up, I was in the same room you found me in. Barboza was there, and so was Adrian Guerrero.”

“Guerrero,” Armando says, eyebrows rising, but he motions for Charles to continue.

“They told me I would make a perfect test subject,” Charles says, “and then they drugged me again. After that, whenever I was lucid enough to be aware of my surroundings, I was in one of the bedrooms down the hallway. Most of the time, though, I was...incapacitated by the drugs they were injecting me with.” He’s proud of the way his voice doesn’t shake.

“Do you know what the drugs were?”

“No. Heroin, I know, to keep me too stoned to fight back or move. But Dr. Leoni was also injecting me with what I believe are sample drugs meant to stifle mutations in people who present as a mutant.”

“We’ve already interviewed Dr. Leoni,” Armando says with a small nod. “Just say what happened.”

“This went on for two and a half days,” Charles says, keeping his voice steady, “though at the time I was disorientated enough to believe I was only hostage for one night. Every drug had a different set of side effects that usually presented very strongly. Dr. Leoni and Creed would observe. They must have fed me or given me water at some point, I don’t know. But the drugs never stopped.”

“What kind of side effects did you experience?”

“Nausea. Paralysis. Hallucinations. Seizures.” Down in his lap, Charles’ hands clench. “Name a common medical side effect, I had it.”

“I’m sorry, Charles,” Armando says solemnly, and Charles looks away.

Charles lifts his cup of tea and takes a long sip. It feels good on his throat. “They finally let me rest, though I was still kept ‘under’ with heroin. I woke up earlier than expected, however, and was able to get myself up to make an escape.” He describes the rest to Armando as thoroughly as he can. Armando only interrupts to ask him for clarification on things, but otherwise listens attentively. By the time Charles is finished, his voice is hoarse and he feels exhausted.

“Just a couple more questions, Charles,” Armando promises him. “Was Barboza ever in the room when they were injecting you?”

“I...I think I remember hearing his voice,” Charles says. He shakes his head. “I couldn’t say for sure. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Armando assures him. “But Dr. Leoni and Victor Creed were always there with you, at least until the point when you woke up and were able to escape the room?”

Charles nods. “Yes. But I don’t hold Dr. Leoni accountable, and I don’t want to press charges against her. Her actions were all under duress, like I told you. Barboza kidnapped her daughter.”

“Yes, we are aware,” Armando says with a nod, “we’ve currently got an ongoing search and we’re optimistic about finding Alice.”

“Good,” Charles says, “I’m glad to hear it.” Erik could probably help too, come to think of it. His people could conduct a search of their own without stepping on the toes of the police, and probably help find the little girl even faster. He’ll have to ask Erik about it once Armando has left.

“Is there anything else you can think of to tell me?”

“No,” Charles says slowly, “that’s all I can remember.”

“Alright,” Armando says with a friendly smile. They both rise to their feet, and he shakes Charles’ hand again. “Thanks for your cooperation, Charles. If you’re content here with Erik, I don’t think it’s necessary to stick you into witness protection.”

“No, I’m fine,” Charles agrees. Erik will keep him safe. “I don’t want to lose my job here, if I haven’t been fired yet.”

Armando laughs. “Don’t worry, we’ve spoken to your department chair. She knows you were involved in a kidnapping case, and has a letter signed by my sergeant for authenticity and a gag order warrant signed by a judge so she doesn’t blab about it to the press or anyone else. We used the words ‘high-profile’ a lot, which generally seems to do the trick. You have the whole rest of this week off, by the way. The official story is that you’ve had a family emergency.”

“Thank you,” Charles says, a little ruefully. “That seems like a lot of...special police work.”

“Only the best service for Mr. Lehnsherr,” Armando says with a rueful grin. “He’s made dirty cops out of us all this weekend, but in this case, at least, I can’t say I mind.”

“Alex Summers will be pleased,” Charles says, and Armando ducks his head with a cough.

“Right,” he says quickly, “I should be getting back to the station.”

“I’ll go get Erik,” Charles says, turning away to hide his brief smile. He’s glad this past weekend’s events haven’t put a strain on the slowly-budding romance between Alex and Armando. In fact, their relationship only seems to have gotten stronger. That’s one good thing that’s come out of this whole shitty situation at least.

He walks out into the kitchen, sliding open the glass door and sticking his head out into the afternoon heat, where Erik sits on their patio. “You can come back in now.”

Erik snorts and gets up, slipping his phone into his pocket. “How’d it go?” he asks quietly as he comes over, eyes flickering across Charles as if checking for signs of injury.

“Just fine,” Charles assures him, stepping back to allow him in. “I’m tired, though.”

“Let me walk Muñoz out, and change the sheets,” Erik murmurs, “and then you can go back to bed.”

Charles nods, drifting after Erik into the dining room. Going back to bed sounds wonderful. He knows he should probably contact Hank, if he’s supposed to be out for the week, but he’ll do that later tonight. Or tomorrow.

Erik shakes Armando’s hand. “Muñoz.”

“One last question for both of you, before I go,” Armando says calmly. “Do either of you know anything about Barboza’s disappearance from Brookdale Hospital last night?”

Charles very pointedly doesn’t look over at Erik, because Armando is watching them both carefully. “Barboza is free?”

“He wasn’t discharged,” Armando answers. “He was under arrest as it was. But he was simply gone from his bed this morning, even though we had his room under surveillance.”

“Curious,” Erik says, far too casually for it to be anything but. “And upsetting, given our sense of security was dependent on the police doing their job.”

Armando looks like he wants to roll his eyes and is only barely refraining. “I don’t need to explain to you that taking justice into your own hands is against the law, Mr. Lehnsherr.”

“Of course not,” Erik says with a sharp smile, “but unless you have solid evidence, doesn’t the saying go ‘innocent until proven guilty’?”

“Enough,” Charles says, putting a hand on Erik’s arm. He isn’t surprised Erik took Barboza out, but he doesn’t need to bait the cops about it too.

“Of course,” Armando says, looking resigned but no less surprised than Charles. “Have a good afternoon, Charles, Mr. Lehnsherr. I’ll be in touch if anything new comes up.”

“I’d like a copy of the lab report after your people run tests on the drugs bagged in Barboza’s building,” Erik says as the three of them move into the hallway and towards the front door. “You can pass it along to Alex.”

Armando sighs. “I’ll make copies when it’s done.”

“Good,” Erik says, and opens the door with his powers.

“Thank you,” Charles says, and Armando gives a small wave as he steps outside. “Is it really fair to lean on him after everything else he’s already done?” Charles asks Erik as soon as the door is shut, locks crunching into place.

“Muñoz has a large family,” Erik says absently, ushering Charles into the living room. “Lots of younger siblings, all mutants. I moved his whole family into a bigger apartment closer to where his mother works, and got all of them placed into better schools with mutant programs on scholarships. If I want one lab report from him, he can get me a lab report.”

“Erik,” Charles says, half-exasperated but mostly fond. “You didn’t tell me.”

“Alex also owes me another hundred years of servitude, but that’s beside the point.”

Charles snorts, taking Erik’s hand and linking their fingers together. He lets Erik lead him over to the couch and manhandle him down onto the cushions. Erik looms over him, gently brushing back Charles’ hair from his forehead.

“I’ll go change the sheets. You stay here.”

“Don’t forget to let Rosie back in,” Charles says sleepily. “Otherwise she’ll bake.”

“I suppose we don’t want a charred dog,” Erik says, giving Charles a soft kiss. “I’ll be right back.”

Charles is aware of Erik moving off, but his eyes are already drifting closed. All his exhaustion is catching back up with him at once, especially now that he’s clean and he’s fulfilled his obligation to the police, and he’s sound asleep long before Erik returns.

 


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only one more chapter to go after this! We may or may not be on time with it next week, so thank you in advance for your patience.

 

Routine is what saves him those first few days in the aftermath of what happened with Barboza. As soon as he’s strong enough to stay awake longer than an hour or two at a time, Charles insists on working. Erik doesn’t like it, but he doesn’t argue as much as he normally would. On one hand, Erik’s newfound tendency of tiptoeing around Charles like he’s too delicate to upset is getting annoying very quickly. On the other hand, it helps Charles get his way so he supposes he won’t comment on it. Not just yet anyway.

He’s relieved he doesn’t have to go into campus right away—too many uncertainties for either his or Erik’s comfort, and besides, he isn’t sure he could handle teaching right now anyway. As soon as he can make Erik agree, Charles has Hank come by and drop off his outstanding paperwork. There are some graduate student grant applications that need approving, quizzes that need grading, and a couple of letters of recommendation that need writing. Normally such paperwork would make Charles go cross-eyed at the tedium, but he digs into it with relish now, glad for the distraction.

It doesn’t help that Erik hovers around him every hour of every day, doing a bad job of pretending he’s not keeping one eye on Charles at all times. Charles can’t tell what Erik’s looking for, can’t even guess. Is he searching for signs of a breakdown? Signs that everything’s alright? Is he just reassuring himself that Charles is still there? Whatever it is, his constant gaze is starting to make Charles antsy. As close as they’ve become over the last few years of working together, it’s never been like this. Erik’s presence has never felt _stifling_.

“Enough,” Charles says at last, setting his pen down on top of his stack of papers. “You’re worse than you were back when I was recovering from being shot.”

Erik doesn’t bother playing innocent; instead he merely grimaces. “You realize this is not a normal comparison to make.”

“Erik,” Charles says, rubbing at his eyes to make the shadows go away under the guise of being tired of paperwork. Logan took out his IV only yesterday but has kept Charles on a steady stream of pills now instead. So far Charles hasn’t felt anything more than occasionally dry-mouthed or drowsy. It’s like he went on a wild bender for one weekend and now has decided to sober up. “Do you want to end our relationship?”

“No,” Erik says bracingly.

“Then stop looking at me like you’re waiting for me to go first, and stand up and say I’m done,” Charles says, lowering his hand again. The shadows are the only remaining side effect from the weekend, coming and going from the corners of his vision. When Charles told Logan about them while he was at the house yesterday, Logan had assured him they’d fade over time, probably when Charles’ telepathy comes back. The _if_ had gone unspoken. “I’ve already told you a dozen times, I’m not going anywhere. Unless you want that?”

Charles can’t imagine Erik actually wanting to end things between them, but just as Erik has promised to honor Charles’ wishes, Charles would honor Erik’s. He’d leave if Erik truly wanted him gone. He doesn’t begin to try and imagine how he’d feel.

“I don’t,” Erik says quietly. He gets up from where he’d been pretending to work on the other couch, and comes to sit beside Charles. “I can’t help it if I’m worried, Charles. By Sunday morning we were searching for your _body_. You’re safe now, but you’re very quiet.”

“I’m tired.” Charles tries to smile. “I’m not exactly in the mood for a party.”

“I know you aren’t,” Erik agrees, “but you’re not yourself.” He takes Charles’ hand, sliding their fingers together to take the sting out of his words. “I know you don’t want to talk to me about—”

“I know you’ve read Armando’s transcription of our interview,” Charles interrupts, not accusing but just weary. He isn’t upset about it—he expected Erik would find a way to read it, and it saves Charles from having to repeat himself and relive everything again. “So you know everything that happened. What’s there to discuss?”

Erik sighs. “I know you don’t want an apology—hear me out,” he says when Charles opens his mouth. Charles gives him a look but nods, subsiding. Might as well let Erik get it out of his system. “I know you don’t want an apology from me because you’re under the impression that because you willingly volunteered to work for me, I’m faultless.”

“Which is true,” Charles can’t help but interject.

“But it isn’t,” Erik says patiently. “It _is_ my fault. When an oil spill happens out in the middle of the ocean the workers on the rig are blamed, yes, but so is the CEO of the drilling company for allowing regulations to become negligent enough to allow the catastrophe to happen. You were my employee, and you were hurt while you were working for me.”

“I don’t see you getting so worked up about Azazel, or any of the others.”

“You know it’s more complicated than that.”

“It is,” Charles agrees, “but I’ve already told you I don’t blame you. Do you know what one of my only coherent thoughts was, when I was able to think through the drug cocktails all weekend?”

“No,” Erik says tightly.

“It wasn’t ‘how could Erik let this happen,’ or ‘why did Erik make me do this,’” Charles says gently. “It was ‘Erik will come for me soon,’ because I knew you wouldn’t abandon me.”

Erik’s grip on Charles’ hand has grown tight, but he relaxes it as soon as he realizes. “Of course I wouldn’t,” he says roughly.

“And I knew that,” Charles answers, “and I still know that, because you _did_ come for me. So I don’t need you to apologize, because you did exactly what you were supposed to do, as the mafia boss I’ve pledged myself to. You didn’t give me up for dead, and kept searching until you found me.” This time he manages a small smile. “Very romantic.”

Erik rolls his eyes, but he still looks troubled. “But I let you get put in that situation in the first place.”

“We’ve been over this too,” Charles reminds him, clasping Erik’s hand between both of his own. “You might control half of the city’s underground now, but you can’t control everything. Barboza and Guerrero had you backed into a corner, and you took the option you thought was best, given the information you had. There was no other way for you to go.”

“Two-thirds,” Erik mutters, “I control two-thirds now.”

“Very impressive,” Charles assures him gravely, and smiles again when Erik snorts.

“I didn’t want this for you,” Erik says, growing solemn again. He reaches up with his free hand to touch the corners of Charles’ mouth deftly, as if memorizing the shape of his smile. “You know that.”

“I do,” Charles says, lips moving against Erik’s fingers. “But I’m made of sterner stuff than you seem to think.”

Erik pulls them away again, sighing wearily. “I don’t think you’re weak, if that’s what you’re implying.”

“Then relax a little, yeah?” Charles nudges his knee against Erik’s. “I’m not about to go to pieces. I’m just recovering, and it’s…” He pauses. “It’s weird being without my telepathy. I feel disorientated.”

“It will come back,” Erik says at once, straightening a little, “Howlett says there’s a high ch—”

“I know,” Charles interrupts him, “but in the meantime, I _do_ feel out of sorts. But it doesn’t mean I’m hovering on the edge of a breakdown.”

Erik studies him intently for a few moments. Charles lets him look his fill, as if Erik hasn’t already spent enough time watching Charles like a hawk. “You would tell me. If things were becoming too much.”

“I am always brutally honest with you,” Charles admits, and Erik is startled into giving a small laugh.

“That’s true.”

“I’m not trying to pretend last weekend never happened to me,” Charles says. “I’m just trying to process it. I’ll be fine.”

“Alright,” Erik relents.

Charles can tell he’s still not fully convinced, but at least he’s edging that way. It means more to Charles than he thinks he could ever say, to have Erik so clearly worried about him and ready to do anything for him. Erik’s made a name for himself in the mob world, for being ruthless and cold, but he doesn’t seem to care about his reputation when it comes to Charles. Charles grew up in a family that prioritized reputation and the family name above anything else, so to have someone who couldn’t care less, in favor of Charles, has been...different.

And not at all bad. Charles leans into Erik for a kiss, soft and slow. He might not be able to feel Erik’s mind, but he can feel the warmth of Erik’s body, and the way Erik gently cups the back of his head, fingers tangling gently in Charles’ hair. He can feel Erik’s heartbeat when he puts a hand on Erik’s chest, and the way Erik exhales softly when they part, resting his forehead against Charles’.

“You know,” Erik says eventually into the silence, “you never got to take me out to dinner.”

“I stood you up,” Charles agrees. “I wonder how many people can say they stood up a mob boss for dinner and lived to tell the tale? Aren’t mafia dons generally the type of chap to be morbidly offended? Shouldn’t you seek violent retaliation on anyone who dares to insult your pride?”

“Charles,” Erik says, and Charles doesn’t need to be looking up at him to know he’s rolling his eyes. “I could feed you to my vicious dog if that would be more in-character.”

He whistles once for Rosie and she comes barreling into the living room, leaping up onto the couch when Erik sics her on Charles. She pounces on him, scrabbling across Erik and knocking Charles over, climbing on top of him and licking his face and hands when he puts them up to defend himself.

“Good girl, Rosie,” Erik tells her, patting her back while Charles laughs, only half-heartedly trying to shove her away as she continues her assault, “defend my wounded pride.”

“Stop, stop,” Charles says, laughing helplessly and squirming as she sticks her cold nose in his ear, sniffing loudly, “this is utter—betrayal—” His breath leaves his lungs in a loud whoosh when Rosie puts a paw squarely into his stomach when she adjusts her stance to lick his cheek.

“ _Platz_ ,” Erik tells her, sounding amused and gently tugging her off. She hops down off the couch again, stubby tail wagging and utterly pleased with herself.

Charles coughs, still winded, but he barely has time to recover before Erik stretches out on top of him, pinning him down against the couch. Charles keeps his smile, reaching up with both hands to run his fingers through Erik’s hair and casually hooking one leg over the top of Erik’s. Erik’s expression is soft, worlds away from the sharp edges he’s honed for dealing with everyone else.

It had felt good to laugh, something inside Charles easing just a little more. Right now there are no shadows in the corners of his eyes. “We can try going out to dinner again on Saturday night, if you’d like.”

“Whatever you want, Charles,” Erik says. Despite his lack of telepathy Charles knows the sentiment runs far deeper than a dinner date. Erik is looking down at him like he can’t quite believe his luck.

“I get to pay,” Charles reminds him, trying not to squirm beneath such open regard. “The whole bill _and_ tip. It’s my treat.”

“Your treat,” Erik agrees absently, leaning down to kiss him. This Charles can get behind, dragging his fingers slowly through Erik’s hair and allowing Erik to kiss him for as long as he wants, enjoying the firm solidness of Erik’s body on top of him. He’s had a bit of difficulty these last few days with other people touching him, especially when he can’t mentally feel them coming, but Erik’s touch has always been comforting. At least Barboza couldn’t take this from him.

They don’t get much further than lazily making out, but Charles isn’t disappointed. He hadn’t expected much anyway—after all, it had taken them over three months after he’d been shot to have sex again. When it comes to Charles’ wellbeing, Erik is nothing if not careful.

Alex drops by later that afternoon carrying a blue folder and a tray with three cups on it. “Hey, boss. Hey, Charles. I brought you coffee.” Then he glances at Charles and frowns. “Actually should you be having caffeine right now? Shit.”

“Probably not,” Charles admits. He’s already had tea earlier after lunch, and Logan’s limited him to one cup a day while they’re still figuring out what was in his system and how long it’ll take for his body to flush it out. “But thanks for the thought.”

Erik accepts the cup Alex hands to him and jerks his head down the hall toward his office. “Let’s talk.”

Charles starts to get up from the couch to follow, but both Alex and Erik stop. They exchange a quick, considering glance, and without his telepathy, it takes Charles a moment to decipher it.

“What is it?” he asks, sinking back down onto the couch.

Erik gives him a patient look. “Charles…”

“Don’t _Charles_ me. Please—” He takes a sharp breath. “Please don’t do this to me. Don’t shut me out.” The very thought of Barboza makes his stomach roil, even if he knows the man is gone now—and likely dead, at that. But he needs to know, for his own peace of mind.

Alex looks to Erik, whose mouth flattens into an unhappy line. “It’s about Barboza and his syndicate,” Erik says after a long pause, “but I don’t think you’d want to hear it. It concerns the more unsavory aspects of my work.”

Charles grimaces. “You’re right, I don’t want to hear that. But I’d like a general idea of what’s going on. No details, just...enough that I can understand. Please.”

He catches and holds Erik’s eyes until Erik sighs. “Alright.” He comes around the end of the couch and sits down next to Charles, nodding at Alex to take a seat. “We dismantled Barboza’s syndicate, as I told you. But there are still some of Barboza’s loyalists in the city. They aren’t strong enough to challenge us directly, but they may try to strike back. Alex is here to give me the details so we can ferret them out and deal with them.”

“Okay.”

“There’s also the matter of Guerrero,” Erik continues. “The man may be gone for now, but he won’t be giving up so easily. If his benefactor is still behind him, he’ll try again. We’ll have to be ready for that.”

Charles nods. This is nothing unexpected. “And Trask?”

Erik nods at Alex, who clears his throat. “B. Trask. We got his first initial, but that’s it so far. Angel’s trying to dig up any records on him but we’ve got next to nil, and if _Angel’s_ having trouble getting intel then…”

“Then he’s well hidden,” Charles finishes. “Or protected.” Out of all of Erik’s people, Angel’s the best at ferreting out information, what with the dozens of connections she’s been carefully building since even before coming into Erik’s employment. If she can’t find information on Trask, then he’s someone to take seriously. Very seriously.

“We’ll find him,” Erik says grimly, and Alex nods. “One way or another, he can’t stay hidden forever.”

“Especially if he’s interested in making a _cure_ for mutants,” Alex says, wrinkling his nose. “He’s going to want to get it on the market eventually.”

Charles doesn’t say anything, rubbing the track marks on the underside of his arm slowly. They have time. Trask’s drugs are obviously incomplete, the formulas too volatile to be accepted by any of the international drug regulations, let alone the FDA in the United States. Too many adverse side effects.

But Trask is still on the right track. Charles still has yet to feel a single wisp of his telepathy, and it’s beginning to scare him in ways he doesn’t want to think about or even admit. If Trask finds a way to eliminate the worst of the side effects...soon they’ll be watching commercials for a mutant cure drug in between segments of the nightly news.

A cure might not be all that bad. There are some people whose mutations hinder their daily lives, like the twin boys who were in the news a few months ago for being born with sets of gills instead of lungs, or the little girl Charles once met whose mutation causes her skin to constantly produce a thick, viscous goo. Alex once confessed to Charles he used to be terrified of his own powers when he was younger, and didn’t possess the same measure of control over them he does now. His brother Scott has to wear special glasses at all times because he simply can’t turn his mutation off at all.

But it’s hard to believe Trask is developing his cure with the right intentions, especially if his testing stage involves involuntary subjects. Charles shudders before he can stop himself, and Erik puts a hand on his thigh. It seems more like Trask is trying to eliminate mutants as a whole, viewing mutations as a disease, rather than trying to help people.

“What else?” he asks, pretending he doesn’t notice how Erik is watching him carefully.

“That’s, um,” Alex says, rifling through his folder, “really it. Of what I think you want to know about.” He shoots a glance at Erik questioningly.

“It’s up to you, Charles,” Erik allows, voice steady.

“What happened to Barboza?” Charles asks. “I don’t want the details, I just—he _is_ dead, isn’t he?”

“He is,” Erik says calmly, while Alex pretends to be intensely interested in looking out the window.

“Did you—?” Charles asks hesitantly.

“I’ve been here the whole time with you,” Erik says. He smoothes his hand up and down soothingly on Charles’ leg. “I haven’t left the house since we got here Monday night.”

Charles nods. Logically he knows Erik has killed in the past, so he doesn’t know why it makes him feel better to know Erik didn’t go tearing after Barboza personally. He knows too it’s the way of the mob to eliminate enemies, especially someone like Barboza, a rival boss who tried to help take Erik out first. But it’s comforting, in a strange, twisted way, to know Erik had chosen to stay here with Charles over getting revenge.

He takes his hand off his arm and rubs his face wearily. “Alright. I don’t want to know anything more.”

“My study,” Erik says, and Alex pops up to his feet at once, beating a hasty retreat down the hall towards Erik’s office. Erik remains sitting next to Charles, still touching his leg. “It had to be done, Charles.”

“I know.” Charles leans back against the couch cushions, twisting his head sideways to look at Erik. “I know. I’m fine, Erik. All of this is just...still very surreal, sometimes. But,” Charles continues when Erik’s mouth twists, “I came into this knowing I’m not always going to agree with the methods of organized crime. And I’ve sort of paid for it, haven’t I, for thinking I could get away with staying on the edge.”

“This won’t happen again,” Erik says firmly. “You’ve never officially been on my payroll in the first place, but I’m taking you off unofficially as well. You’re not going to do any more work for me.”

“Did you just fire me,” Charles says, blinking.

“Yes,” Erik says frankly, “is that going to be a problem?”

“No,” Charles says slowly after a beat. “But I reserve the right to help you if I want to.”

“Wasn’t that the arrangement we had?” Erik asks, mildly exasperated.

“Kind of,” Charles answers calmly, “but you still would sometimes use me for more mundane meetings and deals. I’m talking about if there’s another crisis, I don’t want you locking me out.”

“I’m not loaning you out again.”

“Good, because I don’t want to be,” Charles says, “but if I want to help protect you, then you’re going to let me.”

Erik stares at him for a moment, and then shakes his head. “You’re impossible,” he mutters, and then leans in to kiss him. “We can work out the finer details later. I need to go talk to Alex.”

“Don’t think I’ll forget,” Charles warns him, and Erik gives a slight smile as he reaches over and picks up Charles’ grading pen, pressing it into Charles’ hand as he rises.

“I would never,” he says wryly, and Charles keeps his eyes narrowed on Erik’s back as he makes his retreat from the living room.

Only once Erik has disappeared from view does Charles turn back to look at his papers, still spread out across the coffee table from earlier. Rosie lies by his feet, gnawing on a rawhide she must have dug out from beneath the couch. It seems incongruous, to go back to grading quizzes after discussing the death of a man by a mob hit, or go back to grant applications while Trask and his mutant cure is still on his mind.

But this _is_ his life now, one way or another, and Charles can at least rest a little easier knowing he chose it himself.

 

*

 

Mystique drops by the next morning without warning, turning up in their kitchen while Erik is still poking at the eggs in the frying pan, one arm around Charles who leans against him wearily after a long night of tossing and turning.

“Cute,” she says from the doorway, and Charles nearly jumps a foot in the air while Rosie starts barking and Erik only just barely restrains the knee-jerk reaction of flinging every sharp object within reach at her.

“ _Raven_ ,” Charles says, slipping out of Erik’s hold and going over to both greet her and restrain Rosie from jumping on her. “Normal people knock on the front door.”

“I wanted to see Lehnsherr in his natural habitat,” Mystique says with a shrug, accepting Charles’ hug. Over his shoulder, she gives Erik a once-over, smirking. “Nice.”

“Quiet, Rosie,” he snaps, and turns back around to check the eggs. Both he and Charles are only in t-shirts and boxers, but Erik refuses to be embarrassed by it. Mystique has seen him at his lowest, this past weekend when Charles was missing. This is an improvement.

“Stay for breakfast,” Charles invites her, pulling open the fridge to dig out the orange juice. “There’s plenty.”

“Sure,” she says easily, patting Rosie on the head. Erik’s traitorous dog licks her fingers, tail wagging. “My flight’s not till this afternoon, so I have all morning.”

“Your flight?” Charles asks, dismayed, but then he’s leading her out of the kitchen and into the living room, Rosie trotting at their heels, and Erik is left alone with the eggs.

Accepting the inevitable, he reaches over to the carton and cracks another egg on the edge of the pan, letting the yolk slide onto the heat with a loud sizzle. Erik isn’t surprised Mystique isn’t sticking around in the city, but Charles will be disappointed. The two didn’t exactly get to spend much time together.

It doesn’t take long for the eggs to finish cooking, and Erik gets out three plates, using his powers to scoop one egg out onto each. He cracks the salt and pepper over them, pours a glass of orange juice for himself, and then uses the utensils to float the three plates out into the living room where Charles and Mystique sit together on the couch. They’re talking in low voices, but as soon as they see Erik they fall quiet.

Charles smiles as Erik floats his plate over into his lap. “Thank you, darling. Come sit.” He scoots over closer to his sister, so Erik walks around the coffee table and sinks down on his other side, sandwiching Charles in the middle.

“Thanks,” Mystique adds, accepting her plate out of the air. Rosie is plastered up against her leg but she doesn’t seem to mind. “He make you breakfast like this every morning, Charles?”

“No,” Charles says, but he nudges his shoulder against Erik’s fondly. “Usually we’re in too much of a rush to get out the door in the morning. But he never skips an afternoon of sending over a cup of tea to my office.”

“Well you certainly know how to romance him,” Mystique says to Erik dryly.

“Charles has simple tastes,” Erik agrees blandly, poking at his plate with his fork. “He won’t let me buy him the diamond-encrusted Keurig, so I make do with a grande from Starbucks.”

Mystique laughs, and Charles makes a face. “You mean I don’t have _tacky_ and _ridiculous_ tastes.”

“Starbucks might count as tacky, though,” Mystique says, and Charles rolls his eyes.

“We can’t all live in Europe and visit every 100-year-old gourmet coffee stand,” he says, and Mystique shakes her head. “Do you really need to go back so soon?”

“Yes,” she answers calmly, “I’ve let things sit for long enough as it is. Besides, you’re going back to work next week anyway, aren’t you?”

Charles pauses for a long moment before nodding. “Hopefully.”

“You don’t sound too sure about that.”

Charles’ smile wavers. “Well. I don’t know how I’d do in a lecture hall with a hundred students without my telepathy. I’d be too unnerved to concentrate, I think.”

Mystique shoots Erik a glance. “You said he was alright.”

“I’m sitting right here,” Charles says a bit irritably, before Erik can reply. “You can ask me, you know. And I _am_ alright. Physically at least.”

“What did the doc say?”

“He’s still running bloodwork, but he’s pretty sure that since I haven’t been having any symptoms or side effects, most of the drugs are out of my system. He wants to keep monitoring me to make sure they didn’t cause any long-term damage, but he thinks everything will check out.”

Mystique’s voice grows softer. “And your telepathy?”

When Charles looks away and swallows, Erik says, “It hasn’t come back yet. Howlett wants to get him into the hospital to get him an MRI and some other scans maybe. To see his brain and see if…”

He can’t bring himself to finish. It’s Charles who fills in the rest of the sentence, his voice flat. “If there’s any permanent damage. If they don’t see anything on the scans, he wants me to see a geneticist, see if the drugs did something to my X-gene. If that’s the case, then the chances of my telepathy coming back are...microscopic, really.” His tone goes flatter still, his gaze fixed on his hands clasped in his lap. “ _Introducing_ a gene mutation is easy, we do it all the time in genetics labs, but _correcting_ mutations is—well, it’s difficult. It’s very precise, tedious work. We’d have to correct whatever the drugs introduced—a sequence insertion we’d have to cut out, and a deletion—well, we’d have to splice the deleted sequence back in, and that’s precarious. We can do that in labs and we’ve tried it with animals, but to try with a human being, that’s…well it’s—”

Erik grabs his hands and squeezes them. “It’s not going to get that far. Your telepathy just needs some time, alright?”

Charles takes one shuddering breath, then another. “Yeah. Yes. We shouldn’t worry about that if it might not even happen.” He says it almost under his breath, to himself.

“That’s right,” Erik says softly. With a gesture, he levitates Charles’ fork from his plate and presses it to Charles’ hand. Charles gives him half a smile before taking it and refocusing on his breakfast.

Mystique has been watching them this whole time, her catlike yellow eyes flicking between them. Erik gives her a wary look, expecting a comment, but when their eyes meet, she just returns to her own food without a word.

It takes a minute for conversation to restart after that. Into the painful silence, Charles says with obviously forced cheer, “So, Raven, is there anyone new in your life?”

She groans. “This is the first time we’ve seen each other in literally _years_ , you just found out what I _really_ do for a living, and all you want to know is if I have a significant other or not? Seriously?”

Charles throws up his hand. “Sorry. I just thought that your work would be off-limits.”

Mystique smirks. “It’s only off-limits if you want it to be off-limits.”

“If you heard about the things she’s done, you might be obligated to call Interpol after breakfast is over,” Erik tells Charles.

“Are you serious?” Charles turns wide eyes on Mystique. “You’re wanted by Interpol?”

“Honestly I’m more concerned about Mossad.”

“ _Mossad?”_ Charles stares at her, slack-jawed. Erik takes a drink to stifle his laugh at Charles’ expression. “Tell me you’re joking.”

“I’m joking,” Mystique deadpans.

“I have an international criminal in my living room!” Charles shouts incredulously.

“Technically, you have two,” his sister says, absolutely unruffled. “Did you know your boyfriend has had some very interesting dealings up down in Cuba and the Caribbean? And let’s not even _talk_ about Canada, _whew_ , even _I_ was impressed by Canada.”

Erik looks at her in surprise. “You heard about Canada?” He hadn’t intended to keep the Canada operation a secret, but he hadn’t heard a lot of chatter about it either.

Mystique gives him an _are you kidding me_ look. “Everyone’s heard about Canada. There was a guy I knew in Germany, I forget his name, but he was thinking about moving some of his business to New York. Then he heard about Canada and he went, _fuck no_ , and now he’s living in China. You scared the shit out of him four thousand miles away.”

“Did I?” Erik can’t help the shit-eating grin that spreads across his face. “It’s always nice to hear my efforts are…appreciated.”

Charles glances between his sister and Erik and looks abruptly horrified. “Oh no.”

Erik frowns. “Charles?”

“Oh no,” Charles says again, eyes wide. “I’ve introduced you two. And now you’re going to bond over killing people and blowing things up, and I’m never going to hear the end of it, am I? Oh no.”

“Relax,” Erik says, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. “It’s not as if Mystique and I are joining forces or anything.”

“Now _there’s_ a thought,” she says, her grin razor-sharp and joking. Mostly joking, Erik thinks.

Charles buries his face in his hands. “My sister and my boyfriend are criminal masterminds.”

“I prefer to be called an _innovator_ ,” Mystique says sagely.

“You’re quite innovative,” Erik agrees. “That work you did in Brussels—I heard about it. Very impressive. I’ve been tracking your handle _Mystique_ ever since.”

That earns him a real, toothy smile. “Please,” she purrs, “call me Raven.”

“I’ve got dishes,” Charles says loudly, scooping up the empty plates from Erik and Raven’s laps and getting to his feet. Erik notices Charles’ own plate has only gone half-eaten, but that’s alright. He’ll bully Charles into eating more later. “Come on, Rosie, leave Raven alone.”

“So,” Raven says into the silence once Charles and Rosie have disappeared into the kitchen, tucking her feet up under herself on the couch. Over the course of the past weekend, she and Erik seem to have come to terms with one another. Erik is certain she still doesn’t fully like him, but he can’t entirely blame her after what happened with Charles, and he’s far too wrapped up in making sure Charles is okay to worry about Raven’s opinion on him anyway.

“He’s getting there,” Erik answers her, keeping his voice pitched low. Charles has had his ups and downs in the past few days, mainly oscillating between closer to his normal, cheerful self, and then sometimes getting quiet and tired. But overall Erik is amazed—and almost _proud_ —how well Charles is handling things. He’s seen men who’ve been in the business for far longer get shaken up worse over less.

“I can see that,” Raven says, but her expression is unreadable. “And if his telepathy doesn’t come back? You going to leave him?”

Erik jerks his head sideways sharply to narrow his eyes at her. “ _No_.”

“I wondered,” she says dispassionately, lifting one shoulder in a shrug, “because along with a number of things attached to your name is the widely-known fact that you favor mutants over humans. Which generally, I agree with, but if Charles loses his telepathy he’s basically a human.”

“Is this the part where you tell me you’ll cut me up into little pieces if I hurt him?” Erik sneers.

Raven smiles pleasantly. “Pieces aren’t my style. I just want to know if you’re going to dump my brother on the wayside if it turns out he’s a baseline now.”

“He isn’t going to lose his telepathy,” Erik says, staring her down. “And I doubt he’d appreciate the protective-sister act, especially coming from someone who he’s been estranged from for most of his adult life.”

“He’s my brother, so he’s stuck with me either way,” Raven says with another half-shrug, “but I’m glad you’re so confident.”

“You aren’t?”

“I’m not the geneticist who knows exactly how his X-gene might be corroding,” Raven says. “You saw his face. Charles is completely freaked out. Although,” she adds, “you _are_ helping.”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Erik growls, but annoyingly, he’s mollified. He certainly doesn’t want or need Raven’s approval on his and Charles’ relationship, but it’s gratifying to be told he’s helping Charles. Most of the time he’s not sure what to do.

“I don’t know what he’s told you,” Raven says after a few moments, “but he had a shit childhood. I still can’t believe he ended up with _you_ , of all the people in the world, but it’s nice to see someone who clearly cares about his welfare. It’s very novel. Don’t fuck it up.” She unfolds herself gracefully from the couch. “You have my contact information. Pleasure doing business with you.”

Erik gives her a nod. “Likewise.” He stays where he is as she saunters past, and a few moments later he hears her strike up conversation with Charles in the kitchen. They exchange a few words too low for Erik to hear, and then Charles laughs, a _real_ laugh, startled and bright and amused. It loosens the knot in Erik’s chest a little, and his next breath feels smoother than all the other ones before it.

They’re going to be alright.

 

*

 

“Call,” Charles says sternly, hugging Raven tightly. “I don’t mean email, I don’t mean mysteriously text me from some unlisted number, I mean _call_. Promise?”

“You’re such a worrywart,” Raven grumbles, but she’s hugging him back just as tight. “The email will be better for day-to-day purposes, but I’ll try to call more often too. I promise. And—” Her voice drops low enough that it’s almost inaudible, and he feels her slip a folded piece of paper into his hand. “—if you ever need me to come get you out of a pinch, whatever it is, call me, okay? I’ll fix it for you. I’m good at fixing things.”

“Thank you.” As they pull back, Charles is embarrassed to feel himself tearing up. It’s been so long since they’ve seen each other face-to-face, so long since they’ve had any honest communication at all—this all feels sort of surreal now, in the best of ways. “Are you sure you have to go so soon? I’ll miss you.” The morning’s flown by far more quickly than he would’ve liked. He’s really not ready to say goodbye yet, so soon after they’ve just reconnected.

Raven gives him a fond smile and punches him lightly in the shoulder. “I’ll miss you, too, big bro. But I’ll keep in touch.”

Trying not to sound skeptical, he says, “I’ll send you an invite for Thanksgiving. You’d better show up.”

Raven smirks. “A free meal? Fuck yeah, sign me up.” After a moment, her expression softens. “Honestly though, if you wanted to invite me, I’d...I’d like that. I think that would be nice.”

“Consider it done,” he promises. “Try not to get into too much trouble please. I’d rather not read about you in the newspaper next week.”

“Please,” Raven says, rolling her eyes. “You won’t ever read about me in the paper. I’m too good at getting into trouble for that.”

He gives her a dry look. “Really reassuring.”

Erik appears at the end of the hall, phone in his hand. “The car’s waiting to take you to the airport when you’re ready.”

“This all started because I was trying to get you away from one of Lehnsherr’s cars,” Raven says wryly. “And now I’m gonna get in one of my own free will.”

“I only offered to give you a ride as a courtesy,” Erik replies coolly. “You’re welcome to get a cab if you’d like.”

“Nah, I’m good.” Gathering her bags, Raven opens the front door and heads down the front steps. One of Erik’s towncars waits at the curb, Janos standing ready beside it. Halfway down the walkway, Raven turns and calls back, “Lehnsherr?”

Erik’s body heat warms Charles’ side as Erik slides up next to him and slips an arm around his waist. “Yeah?”

“Of all the questionable characters in New York, I’m glad he chose you.”

Charles snorts, and Erik just grunts his thanks. They wave as she gets into the car and pulls away, and once she’s disappeared around the corner, they turn back inside.

“I was thinking,” Erik says as they start clearing away their lunch dishes from the dining table. “There’s a penthouse in the Upper West Side I’ve been eyeing. It’s big, big enough for all three of us, you, me, and Rosie, and it’s got a view you wouldn’t believe. You’d like it, you love watching the sun rise. And it’s nearer to my office and to your campus, so the commute wouldn’t be as bad.”

“Erik…” Charles stares at him, the stack of plates in his hand forgotten. “Are you suggesting we move? Are you asking me if I want to move?”

Erik pauses, too, a handful of empty mugs dangling from his fingers. “Yes.”

“But...why?” Charles shakes his head. “We’re comfortable here, aren’t we? You love this house.” It’s been Erik’s place since the beginning of their association, and Erik lived here for years by himself before they met. Sometimes when he had the free time, Erik had even remodeled some areas, molded them to his liking, repainting every once in awhile when it struck his fancy. The house is full of their memories and Erik’s loving care. He can’t imagine giving it up.

“We wouldn’t sell it,” Erik says. “Not immediately at least. But I’ve been thinking about moving further into the city. It’ll be more convenient for both of us.”

“More convenient,” Charles says softly, “or safer?” He sets the plates back down on the table and fights the urge to pace. “Erik, please don’t tell me this is because of me. Because of what happened with Barboza.”

“It’s not.”

“Don’t lie to me.”

“It’s not _entirely_ because of that,” Erik insists. He carries the mugs into the kitchen and sets them into the sink with a clatter, then comes back for the plates. “I was looking into that penthouse before Barboza ever happened. But yes, it _will_ be safer, for you and me both. We’ll be closer to the office, closer to backup if we need it. And it’s deeper in my territory; my enemies would think twice about striking at us there.”

“This is because I was shot,” Charles realizes. “You started looking into this because I was shot.”

“Maybe.”

“ _Erik_.”

“ _Charles_ ,” Erik returns, mimicking his tone.

“I don’t want you giving things up for me,” Charles says in exasperation. “How many times do I have to tell you that? I don’t want you to sacrifice things just for me.”  

Erik’s brow creases stubbornly. “But _I_ want to sacrifice things just for you. I want to keep you safe, and I don’t care what I have to give up to do that.”

“But you love this house. I don’t want you to give it up for me.”

“It’s a _house_ ,” Erik says, incredulous. “If you think I’d love a house more than I love you, then you haven’t been paying attention.”

There are times when Charles forgets how much Erik loves him. In truth, it’s not really a matter of _forgetting_ ; it’s that he doesn’t think about it that often. The fact that Erik loves him is just that—a _fact_. It doesn’t require constant examination or scrutiny. Charles just _knows_ it. But sometimes that means he isn’t conscious of just how _much_ Erik loves him, and then, at times like these, the fierce depth of Erik’s feelings for him completely blindsides him, leaving him feeling like he’s been punched in the gut.

He’s not sure what expression he’s wearing, but Erik frowns. “Charles?”

“I’m fine.” He smiles tremulously. “I just love you so much.”

He crosses into the kitchen and wraps his arms around Erik, burying his face against Erik’s neck. Erik hugs him back tightly, and Charles wishes—god, he _wishes_ he could reach out and touch Erik’s mind. He wants Erik to know exactly how much he means what he says, wants to wrap Erik’s mind in the warmth of his own and hold him as closely and intimately as only a telepath could. Even now, clutching Erik close, Charles can still feel a distance between them. There’s a gap, a disconnect, and try as he might, he can’t ignore it.

“You alright?” Erik asks softly. His fingers dig gently into a knot of tension between Charles’ shoulders.

“I was just thinking about my telepathy. I know I keep bringing it up, but I just…” Charles squeezes his eyes shut. “I don’t know what to do without it. I don’t know who I _am_ without it.”

“Charles.” Erik pulls back slightly to look at him, solemn and intent. “You’re going to get your telepathy back. Even if Trask has somehow managed to damage your X-gene, we’ll fix it. I’ll fly in every doctor in the world until it’s fixed. It’s going to be alright.”

“I know. I know you’ll do everything you can, I _know_ that, but what if nothing works?” Pulling away, Charles scrubs a hand over his face. “If that’s the case, then there’s no use in worrying over it now, but I can’t help it.”

Erik’s lips quirk up in a rueful smile. “I know. You’ve told me a million times before that you can’t just turn off your mind. But I think we should stay optimistic about it, alright? We don’t know anything for sure yet.”

That jolts a surprised laugh out of Charles. “Since when have you been the optimistic one?”

Erik huffs. “I don’t know. I guess you’ve rubbed off on me.”

“I _have_ rubbed off on you,” Charles says, waggling an eyebrow. “More than once.”

It’s a weak joke, but Erik groans anyway and then laughs. Charles laughs, too, laughs until the knot in his chest eases just a little bit, and for a good long minute, things feel okay again. Normal again. Erik smiles at him, that small fond smile he reserves only for Charles, and when he holds out his hand, Charles takes it.

“We’re going to be okay,” he says. “I promise.”

Charles forces himself to believe it. “We’ll be okay.”

 

*

 

They go to bed early that night. Charles curls up on his side of the bed and insists that Erik leaves the lights on and the bathroom door open when he goes to brush his teeth. Erik can feel Charles’ eyes on him the whole time while he’s washing his face and gargling mouthwash. When he finishes, Charles wordlessly scoots over to make room for him and then plasters himself against Erik as soon as Erik slides into bed.

“Can we leave the lights on?” he asks. “Just for tonight.”

Erik wraps an arm around his shoulders and tugs him closer. “We can leave the lights on every night if it helps.”

“It does,” Charles mumbles, his voice muffled against Erik’s shirt. He presses a soft kiss to Erik’s shoulder. “Goodnight, love.”

For the last few nights, Erik’s stayed up long after Charles has passed out, just staring at the ceiling and trying not to feel overwhelmed by the fact that Charles is here in his arms, that Charles is _safe_. He’s woken up several times with his heart in his throat, reaching automatically for Charles, reassured only when his hands find Charles’ warm body beside him. It seems like all he’s done in the last few days is worry, which makes no fucking sense because Charles isn’t in any danger anymore. He made _sure_ of that.

But maybe he’s finally worn himself out with the constant thinking in circles because tonight he drops off to sleep quickly. But it’s far from restful: he falls instantly into dreams of indistinct shapes, of something hot against his face, of shadows in the corners of his eyes, of a cold room, of grating high-pitched noises, and then of a sudden, sharp pain that punches the breath from him.

When he wakes with a start, Charles is curled away from him, shivering. His shirt is damp with sweat between his shoulders, and he’s breathing shallowly against his pillow, eyes screwed shut. He looks small and alone, hunched over himself, hands clenched into fists. But he’s not alone. He’ll never be alone, not as long as Erik has anything to say about it.

Reaching out, he shakes Charles gently on the shoulder. It’s not the first night Charles has had a nightmare since coming home, and Erik’s certain it won’t be the last. He can only hope that the dreams fade sooner rather than later; the circles under Charles’ eyes are darkening, and he’s growing more and more exhausted during the day. He won’t be able to keep going on like this much longer. Neither of them will.

Charles whimpers softly, the furrow between his eyes deepening. Erik hates this, hates to see him in pain. Carefully, he pulls Charles closer, gathering him up into his arms and running a hand through his damp hair.

He can tell the instant Charles snaps awake: he goes rigid in Erik’s hold, his breathing quickening. His fingers clutch painfully at Erik’s forearm, nails digging into skin. Only when Erik whispers, “It’s me, it’s only me,” does Charles let out a sharp, ragged breath and pull him closer, hands grasping at Erik’s shirt.

“It was just a dream,” Erik says softly.

Charles shudders. “Not a dream. A memory.”

He doesn’t seem to notice Erik’s wince when his fingers tighten further on Erik’s arm. For a long few minutes, he just breathes softly against Erik’s neck, trembling very slightly. Erik runs a broad hand down the line of Charles’ spine, wishing there was something more he could do, wishing he knew what Charles needed.

Then he realizes—the dream he was having before. It wasn’t _his_ dream.

“Charles,” he says slowly, “can you feel my mind?”

Blearily Charles lifts his head. His grip on Erik has slowly slackened to something less painful, but he still holds on as if Erik will float away if he lets go. “No,” he says dully, after a moment. “There’s nothing.”

“I was sharing your dream,” Erik says, “there’s no way it could’ve been mine. You were projecting.”

Charles sits up, frowning, so Erik sits up too. “I can’t sense your mind now,” Charles says uncertainly, pale and wan in the bright overhead light. “I can’t feel anything.”

There’s something brittle in his tone that breaks Erik’s heart, because he knows Charles hates showing signs of weakness just as much as Erik himself does. Wordlessly he gathers Charles up close to himself so Charles ends up in his lap, straddling Erik’s thighs, pressed together chest-to-chest with Charles once again hiding his face against Erik’s throat.

“I feel like I’m pressed up against a glass window, looking out at you,” Charles says after a few long moments of silence. “You’re so close but I can’t reach out and touch you.”

_We are touching_ , Erik wants to say, but it isn’t what Charles means. “I swear you were projecting your dream,” he says quietly. He rubs his hand slowly up and down on Charles’ back, gaze locked on Rosie still snoozing at the end of the bed. “You still had your telepathy when you first woke up back in that rundown apartment. You were able to fight off Creed and keep Barboza subdued long enough to get his phone.”

“But now it’s gone.”

“Because you pushed it too far,” Erik says, more confident now, “so it’s burnt out because you had to strain yourself to the limits while you still had drugs in your system. If the drugs were responsible for wiping out your telepathy, you wouldn’t have had it when you woke up.”

“Or my straining myself was the last straw,” Charles says wearily, “and my telepathy would’ve been salvageable if I _hadn’t_ pushed myself to my limits.”

“You wouldn’t be here if you hadn’t,” Erik growls, his fear coming out as anger, the sick feeling in his gut magnifying almost unbearably. “You wouldn’t have made it out of that building alive.”

Charles doesn’t say anything, but he lifts a hand and cards it through the back of Erik’s hair slowly, and they stay like that for a few minutes.

Eventually Erik says, “Just give it time. Like when you were doing PT. It just takes time.”

“Okay,” Charles agrees softly, and Erik can tell he’s being noncommittal but he doesn’t push anymore. It’s too early in the morning to argue about it now.

“Come on,” Erik says, and they carefully untangle themselves and climb out of bed, holding hands all the way out into the living room. Rosie follows in their wake, blinking up at them balefully every time Erik flicks on another light, and she curls up on the carpet with a huff while Erik gets Charles settled on the couch.

“Netflix?” Charles asks, already reaching for the remote as Erik drapes the throw blanket around him.

“You pick,” Erik says, grabbing the pillow he knows Charles likes to keep tucked under one elbow whenever he’s curled up on the touch. He pushes it under the blanket for Charles to situate however he wants, and then heads for the kitchen. “I’ll be right back.”

The clock on the microwave tells Erik it’s 3:38 in the morning, and for a moment he stands in the center of the kitchen rubbing his eyes wearily. Absently reaching back towards the bedroom with his powers to grab onto his phone case, Erik starts rummaging through the cupboards until he finds everything he wants.

When he returns to the living room he’s scrolling through his phone with one hand while with the other he directs his floating tray in front of him, and the opening credits to one of Charles’ superhero shows are playing on the TV. Rosie lifts her head, ears perked, when Erik carefully sets the tray down on the coffee table.

“S’mores?” Charles asks, lifting an eyebrow as he surveys the graham crackers, marshmallows, and chocolate Erik’s piled onto the tray. He reaches out from beneath his blanket and tugs Erik down, rearranging both of them to his liking—Erik sitting propped up in the corner of the couch and Charles settled right next to him, leaning against Erik’s shoulder and chest.

“You love s’mores,” Erik says absently, swiping through the photos attached to the message from Alex. He angles his phone so Charles can see the screen. “They found her.”

“Alice?” Charles asks, taking the phone out of Erik’s hand at once and swiping through the slightly grainy photos, obviously taken on a camera phone at a distance, of Dr. Leoni hugging her daughter tightly, surrounded by several policemen. “Where was she?”

“In a hotel in downtown Brooklyn,” Erik says, floating the tray up closer to them so he can spear a couple of marshmallows onto the two fondue forks he’d also included in his load. “Hungry but unharmed, according to Alex. They just had one guy watching her and he surrendered to the police almost immediately.”

“Thank god,” Charles says, genuinely relieved. He puts Erik’s phone down in his lap and accepts one of the fondue forks when Erik offers it to him. “You’re going to leave Dr. Leoni alone, right?”

“She and her daughter are going into Witness Protection,” Erik says evenly. He gently pushes away Rosie’s curious nose and concentrates on heating up the metal tines of the fondue forks, hot enough to start melting the marshmallows from the inside out but careful not to melt the metal itself. If it wasn’t late spring and almost summer, they’d do this in front of the fireplace with actual fire instead, but it’s always nice to be able to curl up on the couch together and make s’mores anyway. “By morning they’ll both be far away from the city.”

“Good,” Charles says, tearing open the graham cracker packaging with his teeth, and fishing out enough crackers for both of them. “Thank you for helping find Alice.”

“I didn’t do anything,” Erik says, because he hadn’t, not personally, but Charles turns his head and kisses the side of Erik’s neck anyway. Erik tries not to miss the wash of warm affection that Charles would usually project into his head at the same time. “No, Rosie,” he says when Rosie puts her two front paws on the edge of the couch, neck straining towards the food tray, “get down.”

“No chocolate for you,” Charles says, putting a hand on Rosie’s chest and carefully pushing her back down to having all four paws on the floor again. “Did you bring her any treats?”

“Yes,” Erik sighs, rotating the tray around so the small pile of bacon treats are within Charles’ reach, “of course I did.”

Charles cracks a smile, tired but fond, and tosses one of them to Rosie. “He takes good care of us, doesn’t he, our Erik,” he says to her, and Erik busies himself with breaking up the chocolate to avoid having to look at him.

They get their s’mores built the way they like them—neither of them trusts the other to build s’mores because Erik thinks Charles uses too much chocolate and Charles always accuses Erik of not using enough—and carefully squish the gooey marshmallows into the center. They’ve missed a quarter of the Netflix episode doing this so Charles finds the remote and starts it over from the beginning, taking a huge bite of his s’more and spraying graham cracker crumbs everywhere.

“Worry about it later,” Erik advises him dryly, “you know these things are always a fucking mess.”

“You like them too,” Charles points out, licking up a strand of marshmallow off his lips. “Just make sure Rosie doesn’t lick up a piece of chocolate.”

“Tough it out, Rosie,” Erik advises her, tossing her another dog treat, and ignores the elbow Charles jabs into his stomach. “Look, she doesn’t even taste anything she eats, she just wolfs it all down.”

“I hope she pees in your shoes,” Charles says, but he’s smiling faintly again, worlds better from how he’d looked back in the bedroom.

They spend the rest of the episode slowly making and eating s’mores, and after awhile when they’ve run out of treats Rosie gets bored of them and curls back up on the floor at their feet to go to sleep. When the episode ends they let it run right into the next one, even though Erik’s fairly certain the only reason they’re both still awake is all the sugar they’ve just consumed.

“There’s enough graham crackers for one more each,” he offers, surveying the mess they’ve made on the tray, but Charles shakes his head. Erik sets it down on the coffee table again, wrapping an arm around Charles’ waist beneath the blanket.

“Thank you, Erik,” Charles says, and leans up for a long, slow kiss. He tastes like s’mores, sugary and sweet, and they hold each other tightly, heedless of the fierce action scene happening on the TV screen. Erik knows he means it for more than just the late-night snack. Charles’ telepathy may be dormant for now, but they don’t need it to understand each other.

When they part, Charles lays his head on Erik’s shoulder. Erik shifts back so he’s no longer sitting up as straight, and makes sure Charles is adequately covered by the blanket. Rosie twitches in her sleep, nose quivering. It’s warm and cozy in the living room, and save for the noise of the TV, the rest of the house is quiet and peaceful.

They stay like that, watching episode after episode, until the early morning light begins to trickle in through the windows.

 


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AO3 says we started posting in November 2015; gdocs says we first created the doc in June 2014! Thank you all for sticking with us!

 

Dinner the next night starts better than Charles expects it to be. He still feels uncomfortable venturing out of the house without his telepathy, but the silence has gotten—bearable, if nothing else. He doesn’t want it to ever feel _normal_ , but at least he’s no longer badly startled if someone comes up behind him or touches him to get his attention. That makes dinner outside that much less anxiety-inducing.

Erik, however, still has his misgivings. Of course he does. “Are you sure you still want to go?” he asks as he knots his tie in front of the closet mirror. “It’s not too late to call it off and just order pizza.”

Charles fusses with his own tie, not because it’s crooked but because he just needs to be doing something with his hands. “We’re going out to dinner, and that’s final. I already made reservations, and you already arranged for your people to get there first and check it out. We can’t back out now.”

“We can back out whenever you want,” Erik replies firmly. He finishes with his tie and turns around, spreading his arms. “How do I look?”

“Good.”

Erik raises an eyebrow. “Just good?”

Charles huffs a laugh. “More than good.”

After seeing Erik in just t-shirts and shorts or jeans for the last few days, the suit is a welcome change. Charles allows himself a moment to trace his eyes from Erik’s broad shoulders to his narrow waist, back up to his stubbled jaw and mussed hair. The last week has been hard on the both of them, but Erik still cleans up very nicely. Charles isn’t sure if he looks anywhere near as put-together.

“More than good,” he says again. He almost makes the usual joke about wanting to skip dinner altogether so they can get to the fun part of the evening, but Erik would probably take him seriously and sequester them inside. Instead, Charles gets up from the bed and finishes with his own tie, only managing to glance at his reflection for a couple of seconds before turning away, his scalp prickling. He doesn’t like how different he looks, how sunken his eyes are and how thin his face is. His appearance is a stark reminder of what happened and how much of a toll it took on him. He can’t look himself in the eye without remembering Dr. Leoni and that room, and all those endless hours of uncertainty and agony. It’s bad enough that those memories haunt his dreams; he hates that he has to deal with them when he’s awake and conscious as well.

“The car’s here,” Erik says after a moment. “Last chance to back out.”

Charles forces a sharp smile.  “Keep saying that and _you’ll_ be picking up the tab tonight.”

Janos is waiting in the black SUV below, engine idling. He waves to Charles and Erik when they exit the house and hops out to pull the back door open. As they climb into the backseat, Janos says quietly, “Good to see you, Charles.”

Charles smiles at him. “Good to see you, too.”

Once they’re settled in, Janos pulls out of the driveway and into the street. Behind them, another black SUV follows—Erik’s extra security. Evidently he’s content with risking visibility for more muscle, a decision Charles can’t say he disagrees with. The more of Erik’s people there are around them, the safer he feels. That’s part of the reason for the venue: the restaurant he’d chosen is nestled safely in Erik’s territory, far from any known dangerous locales. Plus it’s only a twenty-minute drive, traffic notwithstanding, so if at any point Charles wants to go home, it won’t take long to get there.

Erik reaches over to take his hand. “I can practically hear you worrying.”

“Not worrying,” Charles says. “Not really. Just…thinking.”

“About what?”

Charles gives him an impatient look. He’s getting a little tired of Erik wanting to hear his every thought. Or he’s getting tired of not being able to share his thoughts with Erik with nothing more than a quick, mental touch. Almost the same thing, really.

“About what I’m going to have for dinner,” he says. “Do I want fish or steak? Always a hard choice.”

“You always spend ten minutes looking at the menu and then choose steak anyway,” Erik says wryly.

“True. But maybe I want to shake it up tonight.”

“You always say that, too.” Erik’s mouth slants in amusement. “I’ll go ahead and order the Bordeaux, too, since you’ll ask for it later.”

Charles shakes his head. “You know me too well.”

Erik puts his arm around Charles’ shoulders and tugs him close. “I think I know you just well enough.”

“That was incredibly sappy,” Charles says, but his chest feels achingly tight as he leans into Erik’s strong, warm grip. After a moment, he says, “I’m glad you’re here with me.”

“Where else would I be?”

“No, I mean I’m glad I have you with me.” He takes Erik’s hand into his lap and folds their fingers together, squeezing tightly. “I don’t think I could do this without you. After everything that happened with Barboza...I’m just glad you’re here with me, on the other end of it.”

Erik takes a deep breath. Charles can feel it expand in Erik’s chest against his side, warm and strong. “I’ll always be with you. You know that.”

It’s a promise that makes Charles’ heart hurt a little because he knows Erik means it. Many people have made promises to him over his lifetime—his parents, his teachers, Raven, friends, ex-boyfriends—but few of them really ever followed through. He’d gotten used to disappointment when it came to promises. But Erik has never disappointed him, not once, and Charles loves him for that. He loves him a lot.

“See?” he says, once the tightness in his throat has eased. “Sappy.”

Erik flicks his ear. “Shut up.”

Grinning, Charles twists sideways and puts both hands on either side of Erik’s neck, grabbing him by the collar and pulling him down into a kiss. Erik huffs out a startled laugh against Charles’ lips, but comes willingly, one of his hands creeping up to tangle gently in Charles’ hair.

They remain pressed close for the rest of the ride, trading slow, heated kisses that leave Charles light-headed and dazed. It feels like an out-of-body experience, without his telepathy allowing him to wrap himself around Erik’s mind too, but Charles focuses on Erik’s solid, physical presence and the way he tastes of sharp, fresh mint. With so little space left between them Erik takes up Charles’ entire world, Janos in the front seat entirely forgotten.

When the car comes to the stop at front of the restaurant Charles thinks for a moment Erik isn’t going to pull back or let go, but Erik presses one last soft kiss against the corner of Charles’ mouth and leans back just as the _maître d_ ' opens the car door for them.

“Good evening, Mr. Lehnsherr, Dr. Xavier,” he greets them as they climb out of the car. “Welcome back to _Coloré_.”

“Hello, Denis,” Charles answers as Erik slides up beside him with a hand to the small of Charles’ back, “thank you for changing our reservations on such short notice.”

“Of course,” Denis answers, pulling open the glass door to the restaurant with a flourish of his bright red fins that run along his arms and legs, “we are always happy to accommodate you, Dr. Xavier. Your table is right this way.”

Charles allows himself to be ushered through the restaurant to their usual table near the back. _Coloré_ is both his and Erik’s favorite date-night place to go—it’s owned by mutants and staffed entirely with mutants, and Charles had fallen in love the very first time Erik brought him here. Most of the waiters and waitresses have physical mutations, while a small handful are empaths who use their gifts to add to the overall warm and welcoming atmosphere. Most of the patrons are mutants as well, though the restaurant’s wide critical acclaim and 5 Michelin stars attract plenty of humans too.

The place seems subdued tonight, or maybe that’s because Charles can’t feel a clamor of emotion and thoughts from the crowd. At least being in a familiar venue makes him feel warm and safe. Though, he supposes, that might be the empaths’ doing.

Almost as soon as they’ve taken their seats, a young waitress appears at their table, smiling pleasantly. “Good evening, Dr. Xavier, Mr. Lehnsherr,” she says. “It’s good to see you again.”

“Hello, Paula,” Erik says, giving her the smile he reserves for people he actually likes. He’s fond of Paula, as he is of almost all of the staff at _Coloré_. He’s usually more relaxed here than he is on other outings, which is part of why Charles likes coming here so much. “We’re ready to order already.”

“Of course.”

“We’ll have our regulars,” Charles puts in. “And a bottle of Bordeaux.”

Paula doesn’t jot anything down, just smiles and collects their menus. “I thought so. I’ll be right back with that for you.”

Charles nods. “Thank you.”

A long silence settles in after she leaves. It’s a strange quiet, a tense one. Charles can’t remember the last time he didn’t know what to say to Erik, or the last time he felt _compelled_ to say something rather than enjoy the comfortable silence. He wants to speak first, nervous of what Erik might say if he chooses the topic. Charles isn’t ready to discuss what happened with Barboza. He isn’t even ready to discuss his nightmare last night.

When Erik opens his mouth, Charles tenses. Thankfully Erik doesn’t seem to notice, preoccupied with spreading his cloth napkin out on his lap. “I was thinking we should go see a movie sometime. Like a real date.”

Charles tries not to let his relief show. “This isn’t a real date?” he asks wryly.

“This is dinner,” Erik replies. “A date means dinner _and_ a movie.” He waggles his brows. “Maybe more afterwards.”

Charles stifles a laugh. He can feel Erik’s foot pressing against his instep, and the touch is grounding. “Is anything good even playing?” he asks lightly, trying to sound mildly interested and not give face to the strange shoot of anxiety he feels at the idea of sitting in the dark in a room full of people whose thoughts he can’t hear.

Erik lifts a shoulder in a lazy shrug. “I don’t know. We can google it after dinner.” Ever shrewd, Erik must catch something off in Charles’ expression because he slides a hand across the table, taking Charles’ own and smoothing his thumb across Charles’ knuckles. “I have the keys to the penthouse I mentioned yesterday, too. After dinner we can go check that out instead, if you want. There’s nothing in it but we can look at the space and brainstorm interior design ideas.”

“And how long have you had those keys,” Charles asks dryly, but he keeps his hand in Erik’s, tracing idle patterns on Erik’s wrist with his fingers.

“Only since this morning,” Erik says with a grin, like he’s anticipated Charles’ suspicion. “Angel picked them up for me and dropped them off when she came by. I haven’t even bought the place yet, but the realtor is...an old friend.”

“I’m sure,” Charles says, and it’s hard to keep the smile off his face. “I suppose if we’re only _looking_.”

“We don’t have to move if you absolutely don’t want to,” Erik says calmly, brushing his foot against Charles’ again, “but you understand I’ll probably be obligated to buy it anyway if we decide to _christen_ it.”

“Erik,” Charles hisses as Erik smirks at him, but he’s forced to swallow the rest of his protests as Paula returns, setting down two wine glasses and pouring the Bordeaux for each of them.

“I told Jerome you guys are here,” she says cheerfully as she sets the bottle in a wine chiller on the table for them. “He says dessert will be on the house, and don’t be surprised if he comes out to bombard you guys later.”

“He doesn’t have to do that,” Charles says even as he gives her a smile. It’s starting to feel a little more natural on his face, and it helps that the sentiment is genuine.

“By all means, tell him to charge us double,” Erik purrs as he takes a tiny sip of wine, “Charles is paying tonight.”

“He can charge me triple if he puts a sleeping pill in Erik’s plate,” Charles says dryly, and Paula laughs her entire way back to the kitchen.

“I only hope you’d carry me home,” Erik drawls, lifting his wineglass towards Charles. His other hand hasn’t let go of Charles’.

“Cheers, darling,” Charles says sweetly instead of answering, and Erik huffs out a laugh as Charles lightly taps their glasses together. They take a long sip together, and Charles enjoys the bold, rich flavor of the wine, a complex wash of tastes across his tongue. He’s always perfectly happy to eat noodles out of takeout containers on the couch with Erik, but there’s something to be said for getting dressed up together and going out to a nice restaurant.

Judging by the way Erik is eyeing him from across the table, if Charles still had his telepathy he’d no doubt be needing to block out all manner of lewd thoughts and pointed suggestions of how they could put the table to better use. It’s comforting in more ways than Charles can express, that Erik is treating this exactly like any other date they’ve had, and isn’t behaving any differently.

“I’d like to see the penthouse,” Charles says as he sets his glass down. “I still need to be convinced,” he warns when Erik gives one of his slow, curling smiles in triumph, “so your pitch had better be good. But it won’t hurt to at least take a look.”

“You’re going to love it,” Erik says confidently as Paula swings by again, setting down two glasses of water along with a bread basket and a tiny dish of olive oil.

“What about Rosie?” Charles asks, determined to remain skeptical. “She loves the yard at the house so much, Erik. A penthouse doesn’t have a back yard.”

“But it _does_ have an entire rooftop terrace,” Erik answers, gently sliding his hand away from Charles’ at last to tear off a piece of bread and dab it in the olive oil.

“This place already seems ridiculous,” Charles mutters when he fails to come up with anything else, reaching for the bread too, ignoring how Erik’s answering grin is all teeth.

They finish off the bread basket in record time. Charles’ appetite has been lacking these last few days, but being here in this restaurant on a perfectly ordinary date, surrounded by perfectly ordinary people, loosens the knot of tension that’s been lodged in his gut for nearly a week now. It’s the first time since Barboza that he feels anywhere near normal again, and he finds that he’s actually pretty hungry.

Erik is obviously pleased when Charles scarfs down one breadstick, then reaches for another. When he catches Charles looking back at him, he asks, “Feeling better?”

“A little,” he admits. “Hungry, more than anything.”

“We can fix that,” Erik says confidently, lifting a hand.

“No, don’t ask for more,” Charles says quickly. “If we eat too much bread now we won’t have room for steak.”

Erik eyes him but doesn’t call Paula over, lowering his hand. “Finish up this basket, at least.”

Charles makes a show out of shoving half of his breadstick into his mouth in one go, chewing and swallowing as quickly as he can while Erik laughs.

Paula delivers their entrees just as they’ve finished off the last of the bread, sweeping up the empty basket and the olive oil dish before setting their new plates down. “Enjoy, gentlemen,” she says as she tops off both of their wine glasses with a smile, and then she retreats, leaving them to it.

“How are things with the police?” Charles asks as they dig in. “You’re in the clear?”

“Of course I am,” Erik answers, absently confident as he cuts into his steak. He uses his powers to manipulate his fork and knife, while he busies his hands with resituating his napkin down across one thigh. “The helicopter attack has been pinned on Barboza. So has the destruction of the warehouse I might’ve flattened while we were searching for you. They have all the evidence they need, they’re just missing Barboza.”

Charles isn’t the least bit surprised about the warehouse; it’s amazing Erik hadn’t flattened the entire city in order to find him again. The notion leaves a funny feeling in his gut. “But they’re not going to find him.”

“Not all of him,” Erik says calmly, lifting his gaze to take Charles in. “I’m willing to be open with you about everything, Charles, but do you want to do this over dinner?”

Considering what _not all of him_ could mean, Charles shakes his head. “No. I just wanted to make sure there weren’t any loose ends that still pointed to you.”

Over his plate, Erik’s fork and knife go still. “My bases are covered,” Erik assures him seriously, not dismissive or teasing. “And you know they couldn’t put me away even if they tried.”

“Never say never,” Charles says, but he’s relieved, for the same selfish reasons he’d omitted parts of the truth when giving his statement to Armando. Erik might have Armando’s precinct in his back pocket, but he doesn’t control all of the cops in the city, and nor does he have much influence over the feds. Charles doesn’t want there to be any chance of Erik being arrested for anything.

Now Erik gives a lazy grin. “I didn’t.”

They take their time with the first course, and without really realizing it, Charles feels himself fully relaxing at last. It’s still strange, being without his telepathy and the constant low-level awareness it grants him of his surroundings, but with Erik it’s always been easy to forget the rest of the world and become absorbed in one another. The food is good, their conversation topics vary but refreshingly never touch on anything mob-related, and Erik’s foot stays solidly pressed up against Charles’ beneath the table.

Erik said the penthouse was unfurnished and empty, but Charles wouldn’t put it past him to already have a king-sized bed installed in the master bedroom. Either way, whether they christen the penthouse or manage to make it all the way back to their house before one of them loses patience, sex seems to definitely be on the menu tonight. At first Charles thinks he’s nervous—he’s never had sex without his telepathy before—but gradually it dawns on him that it’s not apprehension swirling in his belly: it’s anticipation. It’s Erik. Erik will make him feel good. It will be nice to have the ball of anxiety and stress that’s been knotted up inside him all week long fucked out of him. Maybe that’s what he’s needed all this time: something to hold onto, something _physical_.

“Would you like me to bring you dessert menus, or do you want to put your trust in Jerome tonight?” Paula asks them when she comes to pick up their empty plates. “He’s got a new recipe he’s been dying to try out on a couple of unsuspecting innocents.”

“What do you think, Charles?” Erik asks with lazy amusement, sliding his hand across the tablecloth to link their fingers loosely together. “Up for something new, or are you going to read the entire dessert menu before ordering the crème brûlée again?”

“I don’t think I could bear the sight of the same fruit plate you always order tonight,” Charles deadpans, “so let’s go with something new, please, Paula.”

Paula laughs. “You’ve got it, Dr. Xavier.”

Erik gives Charles’ fingers a soft squeeze as Paula heads back towards the kitchen. “You’re hungry tonight.”

“Actually I’m rather full,” Charles admits, using his free hand to bring his linen napkin up out of his lap and setting it down on the table.

“Good,” Erik says idly, as if it’s inconsequential either way. Charles imagines Erik must be pleased, though. He’s been trying to get Charles to eat a full, regular meal all week. “We can always take dessert to go.”

“You just want to get to your new penthouse,” Charles accuses, but he can feel the corner of his mouth quirking up in a tiny grin.

“I want to get _you_ in my new penthouse,” Erik corrects him, not bothering to hide his smirk, “because the sooner you’re there the sooner you can tell me how perfect it is.”

“Oh, is that what my lines are?” Charles asks dryly. “I think I need to see the actual script.”

“There aren’t a lot of speaking lines,” Erik says, and Charles tries not to think about how much he suddenly desperately misses the way Erik’s mind would be pressing against his right now, heavy with innuendo and lust, “after a certain point, things sort of dissolve into...action sequences.”

“Action sequences,” Charles repeats, and Erik is already laughing. “Unbelievable.”

“Perfectly believable,” Erik insists, grinning around the rim of his wineglass as he takes another sip. “But the script can go however you want, Charles,” he says once he sets the glass down again, growing serious.

“I think I like the sound of action sequences,” Charles says lightly, and smiles when Erik does.

“Yeah?” Erik says, his expression soft in the rare way it gets whenever all of his considerable attention is focused on Charles and Charles alone.

“Yeah,” Charles echoes, starting to lean in slightly, “I—”

“—want to see Lehnsherr!” a voice snarls suddenly, harsh and jarring in the calm atmosphere of the restaurant. “You dickbags aren’t going to stop me. Lehnsherr! _Lehnsherr!_ ”

A loud crash makes Charles flinch, pulling back from Erik as his spine goes ramrod straight and he turns quickly to take in the commotion coming from near the restaurant’s front doors. One of the glass panes has been shattered, broken pieces scattered out across the floor, and an angry man is shoving his way past Alex and Angel, knocking into Denis and sending him sprawling.

“Lehnsherr!” the man snaps, catching sight of Erik and striding towards their table, boots crunching loudly on broken glass. “I have something to say to—”

Before he’s able to take another step, every single person in the restaurant stands up at their tables and pulls out a gun. A series of clicks rings out throughout the entire room as each weapon is cocked, aimed at the intruder. The man goes still, stopping in his tracks, and for a long, suspended moment in time the whole room is frozen in place.

Charles too remains rooted to the spot where he sits, staring around at the guns. It’s an out-of-body experience to realize all of these people work for Erik, that this entire time they’ve been dining while completely surrounded by Erik’s employees, that Erik didn’t even tell him about just how much security he’d implemented before they went out on this date. And Charles couldn’t even sense it. He can’t sense a thing.

“I just want to talk,” the man says into the silence. His gaze flicks across Charles briefly, but without his telepathy Charles has no idea how to interpret the look. “I have information.”

“Really,” Erik says blithely. He’s leaned back in his chair now, one ankle resting on the opposite knee. He still appears perfectly relaxed, studying the man with bored, detached interest. “And you feel it’s important enough to interrupt my dinner.”

“I wasn’t about to pass this along through your little minions,” the man sneers, “you can hear it directly from me or not at all.”

Slowly, gradually, Charles becomes aware of a low humming noise in the room, hovering at the point where it’s only just barely audible. Once he hears it, though, Charles’ attention seems to fixate on it, and it takes him a few delayed moments, like his brain and thought-processes are swimming through molasses, to work out what it is: every last molecule of metal in the building is reacting to Erik’s powers.

Erik isn’t bored or detached. Erik is _furious_.

“Angel,” Erik says, and Angel steps forward, tall boots crunching over the glass. “Why don’t you take our friend into the back. Jerome will find us a private area.”

“This way,” Angel says to the man, just barely refraining from spitting, and he willingly follows her back to the kitchen, his eyes traveling over Charles and Erik one last time before they disappear through the swinging doors.

As soon as they’re gone from sight, everyone in the room clicks the safeties back on their guns and stores them away, sinking back down into their seats and resuming their meals as if nothing even happened.

Charles remains frozen in place, still reeling.

“Alex,” Erik says, without looking up from fiddling with his cufflinks. Alex materializes next to their table, his expression stony. “Take Charles out to the car.”

“Professor,” Alex says at once, turning and gesturing.

“Erik.” Charles stares at him. The humming noise is gone completely, either because Erik’s powers have settled again, his temper cooling, or the sound is buried beneath the idle chatter of the other diners. Who all work for Erik.

At his name, Erik looks up and meets Charles’ gaze. “I’ll be right out,” he promises, still unruffled and dangerously calm. “This won’t take long. Then we can head over to the penthouse, alright?”

“Okay,” Charles says blankly, less in tacit agreement and more for lack of anything else to say. His brain is still trying to process everything that just happened in the last thirty seconds.

Erik unfolds his long legs to stand, pushing himself up to his feet and stepping around their table to offer Charles a hand up, so Charles lets himself be pulled up to his feet too. “I’m sorry about this,” he says, smoothing his hands down Charles’ shoulders once, twice. “I’ll see you in the car shortly.”

“Okay,” Charles repeats, and in a haze, allows himself to be steered towards Alex and led out of the restaurant. None of the diners even glance their way, but the back of Charles’ neck still prickles as he steps across the broken glass.

Erik’s black SUV waits directly outside at the curb, engine running, and Alex strides forward and pulls open the back passenger door. Charles climbs inside, and he’s barely in the seat before Alex slams the door shut behind him.

Janos is still in the driver’s seat, and he gives Charles a polite nod through the rearview. The leather seat is cold, sparse and empty without Erik beside him. Alex yanks open the front passenger door and climbs in, and the three of them sit in tense silence.

Charles looks out the window. Denis is slowly sweeping up the broken glass, calm and unbothered. Further in, everyone else is still enjoying their meals, and Charles wonders just how much it cost Erik to buy out the entire restaurant like this, just so he could pretend to let Charles take him out on a date.

He understands why Erik went so far with security. After the entire past week, perhaps Charles should have even expected this. But what Charles isn’t certain about is the fact that Erik didn’t tell him anything—he doesn’t know if he should be angry or not. If he’d known that they were totally surrounded by Erik’s people, would he have felt as relaxed? They’d been having such a good night, and Charles had been relieved about how he’d been able to enjoy himself, but does it count if they weren’t _really_ out in public?

Suddenly he’s exhausted, weariness dragging down on him like a weight. Charles wouldn’t be worried about any of this if he had his telepathy. Even someone bursting in on their dinner wouldn’t be a problem; he’d be able to stop anyone in their tracks before a fuss was even caused.

“I want to go home,” Charles says aloud before the desire has even fully formed, but once he speaks it, it solidifies and he realizes he wants nothing more than to be at home, surrounded by the familiar. “Take me home, please.”

“I think Erik wanted to take you uptown,” Alex says after a pause, his voice careful, “so you could see the—”

“I’m tired and I want to go home,” Charles interrupts him, polite but firm. The anticipation that had been blooming in his gut throughout the night has dissipated, leaving him utterly drained. “I’m not in the mood for a field trip.”

“I think we should wait for Erik to—”

“Alex,” Charles says sharply, his patience ice-thin. He just wants to go _home_ , and he’s still not sure what his emotions are towards Erik right now. “If you don’t drive me home, I’ll get out of the car and hail a cab. Erik has a second car that he can ride home in once he’s finished here. Please take me home now.”

Alex, having twisted around at his name, studies Charles’ face for a long moment before nodding. “Okay,” he says. “Janos, you heard the man.”

“Thank you,” Charles says, trying not to feel guilty by using a threat. Erik is probably angry enough at Alex and the rest of his people for allowing the man to interrupt their dinner, and if Charles really were to leave the SUV at this point it would only get Alex into even hotter water for allowing Charles to get outside of Erik’s direct orb of protection.

Neither Alex nor Janos answer, but Alex is already tapping away on his phone, no doubt reporting their departure to Erik. Charles settles back against the seat as the car pulls away from the curb, closing his eyes.

The hollow silence in his head aches the entire way home.

 

*

 

Erik slips his phone into his pocket and forces away the fear and concern that Alex’s text stirred up. He’ll worry about Charles later, when there’s time. Right now he focuses on the hot, churning rage in his chest and lets it leak out into his tone as he turns to address the man who’d so rudely interrupted dinner. “You have thirty seconds to explain exactly why you’re here,” he says coldly. “Starting now.”

“Trask,” the man says, standing with his arms folded tightly. They’re out in the alley behind the restaurant, out the back door of Jerome’s kitchen. “Word on the street is you’re looking for Trask.”

“I hope for your sake,” Erik says slowly, “you didn’t just interrupt my meal to tell me something I already know.”

“If you want Trask, you’re going to want to talk to Essex first,” the man says, speaking quickly now. “If you find Essex, you find Trask, you get me?”

Erik doesn’t shift his gaze from the man’s face, but down at his side he flicks a finger at Angel, who stands a few feet behind the man, blocking the back way out of the alley. Essex doesn’t sound like a familiar name to Erik, but it’s about to be. “And Essex is based in…?” he trails off pointedly.

“Shit, I don’t know,” the man says dismissively, “but I might be able to find out for a certain...price.”

Slowly, Erik lifts an eyebrow as high as it can go. “You came all the way out here and interrupted my dinner to extort money from me.”

“You pay informants, don’t you?” the man snaps. “It’s just business. I’m sure you of all people would underst—”

Erik’s not carrying a gun on himself right now; he knows Charles hates feeling one on him if—when—things get physical, and Erik had hopes for tonight. But Angel’s packing three, and all it takes is a small twitch of his powers to pull the pistol tucked up under her jacket out of its holster, zipping through the air to land in his open, waiting palm.

The single gunshot is loud, echoing in the alley but nothing that will get reported. The man’s body hits the dirty ground with a heavy slap, clean bullet exit wound visible on the back of his head.

“I don’t know the name Essex,” Angel says into the ringing silence that follows, while Erik stands over the body and breathes in and out, “but I’m on it like yesterday.”

“Go,” Erik says curtly, crunching the gun in his hand down into a useless pulp of metal and flinging it off towards the dumpsters overflowing with trash bags, “and make sure this gets cleaned up.”

“Yessir,” Angel says, turning on her heel, but then she pauses. “I’m sorry. It’s my fault he got all the way into the restaurant.”

“Go,” Erik says again, and this time Angel doesn’t hesitate to duck back inside. He’s still livid, the anger hot and bright in his mind like a rush of liquid fire, but Angel doesn’t deserve to have it taken out on her. Erik’s always known better than to alienate his own people no matter how deep his rage runs—he’s _always_ made it a point to be better than Shaw, and save his wrath for his enemies.

But right now his enemies are either already dead or hiding far from his reach, and Erik’s anger is directionless and without an available target. For a few long moments, all Erik can do is stand exactly as he is over the cooling body of the man he’s killed, letting his frustration burn him from the inside out, until his vision isn’t red and he doesn’t think he’ll send a rusting pipe through the chest of the next person who speaks to him.

Taking a breath, he straightens out his cufflinks again, flicking a small speck of dirt off his sleeve. He walks back into the restaurant kitchen through the propped-open door, and as soon as he clears the doorway a small team of his people file past to take care of the mess outside.

Jerome is stirring two different pots on one of the expansive stovetops with two of his arms and putting the finishing garnishes on a set of plates with two more, but as Erik walks by he uses a fifth arm to pick up a small paper sack and holds it out. “Dessert,” he says without looking up, “for you and Charles to eat at home.”

“Make sure you bill him for our table, not me,” Erik says, taking the bag. Charles is upset enough, so Erik might as well still let him pay. “As for the rest, you know the usual channels.”

Jerome waves his sixth hand absently. “I know you’re good for it, Lehnsherr.”

Erik moves past him, sidestepping a sous chef and avoiding a busboy lugging a bin full of dirty dishes. “Evening, Jerome.”

“ _Bonne nuit_ ,” Jerome answers, and then Erik is out the swinging kitchen doors.

Most of Erik’s people have cleared out of the restaurant now that Erik’s dinner is over, allowing the restaurant to fill up with normal diners with later reservations, all who have no inkling of what happened only five minutes before. As Erik passes the host stand, all the glass cleared away off the floor, he overhears Denis smoothly offering apologies to a new couple about the state of the door.

The second black SUV that originally held Erik’s visible security team idles at the curb outside, and Erik pulls open the door with his powers and climbs inside. “Back to the house,” he says as he slams the door shut, and at the wheel Sunspot takes off wordlessly.

Erik pulls out his phone as the car slides into traffic, pulling up Alex’s text again with a swipe of his thumb. [ _Prof wants to go home. Doesn’t want to wait and won’t take no for an answer. En route now._ ]

Tossing his phone onto the seat beside himself, Erik lets out a long exhale. The night had been going so smoothly, too. Charles was relaxed, almost even happy, and looking the most normal he’s been ever since Muñoz walked him out of that hellhole apartment building. It makes Erik want to kill the scumbag who interrupted them—Erik doesn’t even know his fucking name, but no doubt Angel will have an entire file on him sitting on Erik’s desk by tomorrow morning—all over again for ruining it.

Charles wasn’t ever supposed to know about the extra security. They were supposed to eat dinner and leave the restaurant without him any the wiser to being completely surrounded by Erik’s people the entire time. They were supposed to go on to the new penthouse, where Charles was supposed to be suitably impressed, and then sex was supposed to have happened at some point, either at the penthouse itself or back at the house.

At least Alex knew better than to keep Charles waiting in the car. The situation is already ugly enough as far as Erik’s concerned, but the fallout would be twenty times worse if Charles lost the last shred of control he thinks he has without his telepathy to give him his usual flippant confidence. Charles would never admit it but he likes being in control just as much as Erik himself does, and with no signs of his telepathy returning yet Erik knows Charles is all but balancing on the edge of an anxiety-induced meltdown.

Erik hadn’t wanted to tell Charles about the extra security, though, because he’s not sure Charles would have actually relaxed during dinner if he hadn’t believed they were on a normal date, and he hadn’t wanted Charles to assume Erik thought he couldn’t handle going out on a date in the first place. Either way, it’s too late now. The damage is done.

The ride home takes both entirely too long and yet doesn’t seem long enough. Janos didn’t have too large of a head start on them but by the time Sunspot pulls up to the driveway, Erik can already locate Charles inside the house by his cufflinks, Janos and Alex already gone and patrolling around the block. Erik gets out of the car without a word, slamming the door shut and heading towards the front door.

The house is dark and quiet when Erik lets himself in. He can feel Rosie’s collar as she prowls around the back yard, so after crunching the locks back into place he walks into the kitchen to put the takeaway dessert into the fridge. Then he steps into the living room.

Charles is sitting on the couch, his jacket off and folded neatly over the armrest. His tie is undone but still looped around the back of his neck, the loose ends resting limply on the front of his dress shirt. His eyes are closed, as if he’d been in the midst of slowly getting undressed but was too overcome by exhaustion to continue, and sank down onto the couch instead. He doesn’t open them or move as Erik walks around the side of the couch to stand in front of him.

“Charles?” he says softly.

“Hi,” Charles says, his voice hardly louder than a whisper. “Is everything okay?”

“Yeah. It was nothing.”

Now Charles opens his eyes. It’s not a mere look he gives Erik, it’s a glare. “Don’t lie to me, Erik.”

Normally Erik would argue, would obfuscate to keep Charles from worrying, but he can tell that right now, Charles isn’t willing to listen to anything other than the cold, hard truth. Reluctantly, he says, “That man who came in had info on Trask.”

Erik pauses, not sure how much he wants to reveal. But Charles prompts impatiently, “Which was?”

“Apparently Trask is associated with someone named Essex. Angel’s running the name down now.”

“Is that all?”

“That’s all he was willing to say.”

Charles is silent for a very long moment. Then he asks, “What did you do with him?”

“Charles—”

“What did you do with him, Erik?”

His tone is hard and cutting. He’s angry about the restaurant, Erik realizes. Not just upset, not just thrown off-balance, he’s _angry_ about it. Angry at Erik. Fuck.

“He won’t be a problem anymore,” Erik says finally. “Not to us, not to anyone.”

“You killed him.”

“If it makes you feel any better, it was quick.”

“No, it doesn’t.” With obvious effort, Charles pushes himself slowly up off the couch. Erik puts a hand out to help steady him, but Charles turns away from it. “I’m going to bed.”

Erik wants to ask if he’s alright, but he knows it would only rile Charles up. Instead, he asks softly, “Do you want me to sleep on the couch tonight?”

For a long moment, Charles simply stands there, his back to Erik. His shoulders are slumped with exhaustion, his entire posture sagging with weariness, and it’s all Erik can do to keep from getting up and going to him. He clenches his hands into fists on his knees and reins in his concern, knowing it’s not welcome.

Finally, Charles says, “No. Just…don’t come to bed too late, alright?”

Erik exhales softly in relief. “Alright.”

Once Charles disappears, Erik leans back into the couch, rubbing his eyes. He’d started the date hoping that one night of normalcy would be the first step toward really fixing things. Now everything seems fucked up worse than ever. There’s a wall between them, and it’s not just because they’ve lost the intimacy of communicating through Charles’ telepathy.

His anger that had burned so hot and bright back at the restaurant has cooled, solidifying into dormancy for the time being. Erik is only left with the kind of weariness he rarely allows himself to feel. He tips his head back, staring sightlessly up at the ceiling. Charles is powerless, and Erik is powerless to do anything about it and he _hates_ it.

Eventually he drags himself up off the couch, checking his phone one last time. A few texts have come in, but all report a quiet front. There’s nothing yet from Angel, but Erik doesn’t expect to hear from her until first thing in the morning. Everything in his email inbox can wait till tomorrow too, so he slides the phone into his pocket and heads out of the living room.

Rosie doesn’t come inside when he calls her, but it’s nothing out of the ordinary for her to decide to stay outside on cool, clear nights so Erik leaves her to it, making sure her bowl has water in it before sliding the glass door shut and flicking the lock. Probably wise of her, he thinks grimly as he turns off the light in the kitchen and starts for the hallway, to stay out of the bedroom tonight.

The door to their bedroom is shut, and Erik can tell all the lights are off inside. He undresses in the hallway, stripping out of his suit quickly and efficiently. He fishes his phone out of his pocket as an afterthought and then carefully pushes the door open, blinking several times as his eyes adjust to the darkness on the other side.

As quietly as he can, Erik picks his way across the soft carpet to their closet, easing open the door and dumping his clothes into their dry cleaning pile. He gets changed into pajamas and then slides into the bathroom to go through his nightly routine, all while Charles doesn’t make a single sound or motion from the bed even though he has to still be awake.

When he finally turns out the bathroom light and makes sure his phone is plugged into its charger, Erik hesitates only half a moment before lifting the covers on his side of the bed in order to slide into the sheets. Charles is a lump on the other side of the bed, duvet pulled in tightly around him, and as Erik settles wearily down on his back he reminds himself at least this is more comfortable than the couch, even if Charles keeps his back to Erik the entire night.

Only a few minutes go by, however, before Charles moves suddenly, rolling over and sidling up against Erik’s side beneath the covers. Erik shifts slightly to accommodate him, dropping an arm down around him and helping situate the duvet over them again so they’re not awkwardly twisted up in it.

“I’m sorry,” Erik says into the dark, head turned sideways so his lips brush against Charles’ hair.

Charles has pressed his face into Erik’s neck, one arm slung across Erik’s chest, holding onto him. “It’s alright,” he says after a moment, his voice heavy with exhaustion.

Erik lets that sit for a moment and then reluctantly presses. “Is it?”

Charles exhales slowly, his breath hot against Erik’s collarbone. “No. But it will be.”

“You’re angry with me.”

“Yes.”

“I’m sorry. I should have told you.”

“Yes, you should have. But…” Charles is silent for a while, the only sound between them his soft breathing. Then he wraps his arm around Erik’s waist to pull him closer and sighs. “But I know why you didn’t.”

Erik lets out a soft breath of relief. The tension sitting bunched up in his shoulders eases, and for the first time all night, he feels like he’s finally regained his footing.

“That doesn’t mean I approve,” Charles continues. “Don’t do this again.”

If he could rewind the night, Erik isn’t sure what he’d do differently. But he kisses Charles’ forehead and promises, “Alright.”

 

*

 

Charles wakes with the immediate knowledge that something is wrong.

Oddly, he wakes from a deep, dreamless sleep. It’s the soundest sleep he’s gotten all week, yet he finds himself opening his eyes—not because of a nightmare, but because he inherently _knows_ something is off, eyes sliding open to take in the dark, silent room.

Nothing has changed from when he’d drifted off to sleep curled into Erik’s side hours ago. Erik is still out, breathing slow and deep, his body warm where Charles presses up against him. Light from the streetlamp outside trickles in through the blinds, and as his gaze follows the striped pattern of light down the duvet on the bed, Charles realizes there’s a darker shape standing against the wall next to the window that isn’t just a shadow.

He’s too surprised to make a sound. He blinks, unsure if he’s somehow still caught somewhere between waking and dreaming as the shape moves, stepping closer to the end of the bed. Charles’ eyes adjust, and in a flash realizes several things at once.

Victor Creed is standing over them. Victor Creed is reaching into the folds of his coat and bringing out a gun that glints dully in the dark as he lifts the barrel to aim, not shiny enough to be made entirely of metal.

Even if Charles shouts, it will be too late—by the time Erik wakes up and even realizes what’s happening, Creed will have already pulled the trigger.

The dim light must be reflecting in Charles’ eyes because Creed sees Charles staring at him, meeting his gaze and giving a terrible grin.

_NO!_ Charles shouts mentally without second thought as Creed’s finger begins to squeeze the trigger, and _pushes_.

Like a dam bursting open in a storm, Charles’ telepathy comes howling forward, fueled by desperation and buoyed by a huge burst of psychic backlash. Erik jolts awake at the same time Charles digs into Creed’s mind with enough tangible force to send the mercenary stumbling backwards to hit the wall, but his telepathy doesn’t stop there: it unfurls further outwards, sweeping out into the neighborhood, the borough, the entire city until Charles is lost in a churning tide of a million buzzing minds. He’s supercharged, as if every single synapse in his brain is firing all at once, and Charles thinks he could keep going, keep reaching outward until his range covers the entire state, the entire country, the entire—

_Charles_ , a voice calls from somewhere far away, familiar and endearing. _Charles, come back._

_Erik_ , Charles thinks, drawn at once to his mind. All around him, minds glitter brightly, filling up the empty void his own mind has been for the past few days, but Erik’s mind is the brightest even though it seems the furthest away.

_Charles_ , Erik thinks back, _happiness_ and _love_ twining subconsciously around the thought of Charles’ name. _You’ve frozen us all in place, sweetheart, you have to let go._

_Not of Creed_ , Charles answers, maneuvering somewhat clumsily around. Erik is right, though—he’s holding the entire city in suspended animation. Carefully, as gently as possible, he eases back out of the minds of everyone in New York City, pushing them all back into sleep or fuzzing out the lapse of control if they were already awake, coiling his telepathy into his head and folding back down into himself. The great surge of power that had come with his telepathy’s return is already ebbing, his abilities shrinking back down to their regular—though still considerable—levels.

His eyes are closed, but when he opens them he finds he’s thrown off the covers and is kneeling on the bed. One of his hands is outstretched towards Creed, who stands pressed back against the wall still, stiff as a board. When Charles turns to look for Erik, he finds Erik sitting up, sheets pooling at his waist, leaned slightly forward as if he’d been just about to reach for Charles before Charles had unintentionally frozen him in place.

_Welcome back_ , Erik greets him, sending him the impression of one of his slow, curling smiles even though he’s still frozen in Charles’ grip. He is patient and at ease in Charles’ hold, not fighting against the grip Charles has on his mind, not a single iota of fear to be found in any of his thoughts; no worry of what Charles could do to him like this. He’s never been afraid of Charles’ telepathy.

Creed is mentally fighting his grip, but it’s not like before in the dark hallway of the rundown apartment building. Charles isn’t standing on his last bit of strength, barely holding on; Charles is at full power, and pays no more attention to Creed’s attempts to break his hold than he would a fly trapped under his thumb.

_My telepathy is back,_ Charles says to Erik, a little unnecessarily, but he’s _relieved_ —so relieved it takes his breath away for a moment, and for the first time Erik strains a little against Charles’ hold, wanting to reach for him when he hears the way Charles’ breath catches in his throat.

_We knew it would_ , he says gently, and now Charles can _feel_ the calm confidence behind Erik’s words—Erik has always firmly believed this, without a hint of doubt. _Let me go, Charles, so I can take care of this._

_Don’t kill him,_ Charles says, but he’s already beginning to loosen his hold, slowly giving Erik back control.

_Not in front of you,_ Erik promises, blunt and honest, every corner of his mind held willingly open for Charles to read if he wanted.

“Erik,” Charles says out loud, turning back towards him while at the same time Erik is finally able to unfreeze and move towards Charles as well. Their limbs are a strange tangle as they grip each other fiercely, holding onto each other tightly, and Charles basks in the feeling of Erik’s mind bright and warm beside his own. It feels so _good_ , like stretching a cramped muscle, to flex his telepathy and brush across the surface of Erik’s mind, Charles’ favorite mind, and feel fully like himself again.

“I thought—” he whispers, then stops, because it doesn’t matter what he thought. His telepathy came back, and he’s okay again, he’s alright again. That’s all that’s important.

That and, he remembers belatedly, the man who came to kill them.

“Creed,” Erik says, seemingly refocusing his attention at the same time. His voice is cold and all business. “You saved me the trouble of hunting you down.”

Charles scoots to the side so he’s not practically sitting in Erik’s lap with his back to Creed anymore, sliding over to sit beside Erik instead, shoulder-to-shoulder as they survey the man pinned against their bedroom wall. Erik loops an arm around Charles easily, casual, holding himself with unflinching authority; like he’s sitting at his desk in his office in his sharpest suit, not sitting in the center of his bed wearing nothing but a thin t-shirt and boxers.

Creed, of course, isn’t able to answer since Charles still holds him firmly in place. Charles feels Erik tug the gun out of Creed’s hand—ceramic, but even ceramic guns have metal parts to them—along with a knife from Creed’s boot, dropping the weapons on the bedside table where they’re neatly out of reach.

_Creed’s the one who sent the man to the restaurant,_ Charles says, reading it all from Creed’s thoughts. His mind is still abhorrent, but Charles is able to block out the nastier thoughts with ease. _He wanted to be able to track you to your home after you left._ So he could kill Erik, Charles sees, a chill running down his spine. Charles’ presence in Erik’s bed had been a surprise to Creed; an extra bonus.

_How’d he know we were going to the restaurant?_ Erik asks without looking away from Creed. Charles doesn’t listen too closely to his thoughts. He doesn’t want to know what Erik’s planning on doing to him.

Charles looks. _He recognized the SUV when we pulled up to the restaurant,_ he reports, feeling ill. _It was by chance he saw us, so he decided to send in someone else to test the waters. It distracted everyone long enough for him to get a tracker on the car._

“You gave me Essex’s name, though,” Erik says aloud, even though Creed wasn’t privy to their silent conversation. “That was a heavy gamble that went poorly for you.”

“He wanted to get you to bite,” Charles says, reading the intention off of him. “He doesn’t know who Essex really is, though. He’s employed by Guerrero and Essex is someone Guerrero mentions a lot.”

_So it could be a false lead,_ Erik thinks, frustrated.

_I don’t know,_ Charles answers slowly, skimming through Creed’s memories briefly for mentions of Essex. _Guerrero always mentions him when talking about Trask and the—the Cure he’s developing._

_Then he’s worth hunting down,_ Erik decides, eyes glittering. “Which leaves me with the question of what to do with you.”

Creed snarls silently, thrashing mentally against Charles’ hold, but his body does nothing more than breathe in and out evenly, hardly blinking. Charles leans sideways against Erik, holding Creed still effortlessly. He feels truly awake for the first time in a week, with his telepathy back, like he’s been viewing the world in black and white and now finally he’s gotten technicolor. The part of himself that was missing is found again, and Charles feels _whole_.

All it took was Erik’s life being in immediate danger, for Charles to be able to reach down deeply enough to find his telepathy again. Is there no end to the lengths he’s willing to go for Erik, Charles wonders.

Erik’s lip curls. “You can thank Charles for saving your life _—_ for now. But when I’m done with you, you’re going to wish you were dead.”

_Erik,_ Charles says, half a warning, half a plea. He doesn’t want to let Creed go, doesn’t want them to have to spend every day looking over their shoulders. But at the same time, he can’t condone murder. As long as he’s been with Erik, he’s never been able to do that.

But Erik is thinking of the dark bruises still visible around Charles’ throat, and of other things Charles doesn’t examine too closely, from when Shaw held power in New York City and Creed and other men like him were rampant in the streets. Erik loathes Creed, with a history that predates Charles’ entrance to his life.

_Put him to sleep,_ is all he says, and Charles complies, pushing Creed’s consciousness to the back of his mind, and allowing him to drop like a sack of bricks.

“He’ll be down for a few hours,” Charles says. He was a little heavy-handed, and he’s not sure how much on purpose it was.

Erik, however, has refocused his attention back on Charles. “How’s your head?” he asks, brushing his fingers across Charles’ temple. _Anything hurt?_

_No,_ Charles asks, unable to keep from smiling despite himself, _I feel fine. I feel wonderful._

_Good,_ Erik thinks, satisfied, and then gives a soft sigh as Charles slides into his head. “I missed you up here,” he admits, tilting his head forward so their foreheads bump gently. They’ve both gotten a little better at saying things out loud now, instead of leaving them implicit between them.

Even so, Charles hooks both hands around the back of Erik’s neck and pulls him in for a kiss, and at the same time he presses all of the feelings he’s had for Erik all week directly to Erik, just as he’d longed to do. They both shudder at the flood of emotion, gasping into each other’s mouths and for a few long, blissful moments Charles loses himself to the dual sensations of Erik’s kiss and Erik’s mind.

When they part, it’s slow and reluctantly. But they need to get up. Erik needs to make phone calls, and figure out how to deal with Creed. Charles should check on Rosie, and perhaps put on a pot of coffee for Alex and the rest of Erik’s men who will be dragged out of bed to help reestablish that the house is secure. They’re in for a long night.

But Charles can feel the peacefully sleeping minds of their neighbors, and can coast alongside Erik’s familiar, churning but efficient thoughts. His head is clear, all the stress and anxiety of the past week evaporated away—his telepathy is back, and while he knows now better than ever that it doesn’t make him invincible, it does give him the certainty he needs to go forward.

He’s ready.

 

*

 

Erik tracks the elevator idly as it makes its ascent, rising slowly at first from the ground floor before picking up speed as it bypasses all of the other floors on its way up to the top. He’s only been here twenty minutes or so, but his anticipation has been building every second.

_No peeking,_ he orders when he feels a familiar presence slide into his head. He even closes his eyes, though if Charles was truly determined he could just make Erik open them again.

_I’m not,_ Charles protests but he sounds amused. _You’ve been building this up for days, I’m not going to spoil it now._

_Oddly patient of you,_ Erik answers dryly, even as he opens his eyes again to make sure for the seventh time everything is in place exactly how he wants it.

_Can’t you make this elevator go any faster?_ Charles asks him teasingly, and Erik snorts out loud, the sound echoing slightly in the mostly-empty room. _Honestly, what are we going to do when you’re feeling horny but we have to wait 95 floors to get to our house?_

_Have sex in the elevator,_ Erik says, _obviously._

_I don’t think so,_ Charles answers wryly, and Erik can feel the elevator slowing down as it reaches the 96th floor at last. A moment later the doors on the other end of the room slide open, and Erik hears Charles saying, “Thank you, Alex, have a good night,” before the doors slide shut again and Charles’ footsteps echo loudly on the marble floor as he crosses the room slowly.

“Well?” Erik asks him expectantly, turning around from the wide, panoramic windows he’s been standing in front of while waiting for Charles to get back from the hospital.

“This is…” Charles visibly struggles with his reaction, and Erik grins. “[Incredible](http://ny.curbed.com/2015/5/29/9955802/buyer-outed-for-432-park-avenues-95-million-penthouse),” Charles admits in defeat, joining Erik in front of the window and looking out across the spectacular view of the city. They can even see the entirety of Central Park, sprawled out in the center of an otherwise urban jungle. “I’m impressed.”

“That’s all I wanted,” Erik says, still grinning, tugging him closer for a kiss. Charles sends him the impression of rolling his eyes, but physically his actual eyes have closed as he leans into Erik, his hands sliding up Erik’s spine and coming to rest on his shoulders. “How did your appointment go?”

“All clear,” Charles reports, leaning back only far enough to smile up at him. “I told you I didn’t need an MRI. But I had them forward all the results to Logan’s office so he has them on record, if you wanted to obsessively look over them.”

“Maybe later,” Erik says noncommittally, even as he makes a mental note to make sure a copy lands on his desk at some point later this week.

Charles huffs out a laugh, shaking his head. “So, do I want to know the price tag that comes with this view?”

“Probably not,” Erik answers calmly. “All that matters is that you like it. If you don’t, I’ll have my people start looking again for someplace else. But the sooner we move, the better. The house is compromised now, Charles.”

“It doesn’t have to be,” Charles says. “I can make Creed forget all about it.” The _if he’s even still alive_ goes unsaid, but Erik doesn’t have to be a telepath to know Charles is thinking it. He hasn’t offered Charles any updates on Creed’s status ever since he broke into their house two nights ago, and Charles hasn’t asked. It’s their usual standard, and it’s best this way.

“This is better, security-wise,” Erik says patiently. “We’ve already been over the reasons, Charles.”

“I know,” Charles says, and sighs. He’s silent for a moment, looking out across the view again. He’s comfortingly solid in Erik’s arms, warm and alive. “It _is_ a beautiful view.”

“All the rooms have windows like this,” Erik says, “and wait till you see it at night, when the whole city is lit up.”

“You’re not worried about snipers?” Charles says dryly, but Erik recognizes the wary concern hidden beneath the teasing.

“Extra reinforced glass,” he says, reaching over and rapping his knuckles against the window. “Bullet proof, shatter proof, the whole nine yards. Plus, we’re at the top of the tallest residential building in the northern hemisphere.”

Charles nods slowly, absorbing that. Erik waits, not wanting to push. In the past two days since getting his telepathy back, Charles has improved exponentially from how he’d first been, in that long week after being rescued. He still gets quiet every now and then, a shadow in his eyes that Erik doesn’t remember being there before. Last night Erik knows he had another nightmare. But he’s made progress.

Charles hasn’t asked to end their relationship, hasn’t told Erik he never wants to see him again. Tomorrow he’s finally going back to work, to do what he loves. Charles is going to be okay.

Erik will make _sure_ Charles is okay. They’re still squeezing Creed for any bits of information they can get from him. Angel has already come up with a handful of leads on Essex already, and has a whole team dedicated to running them down. Alex is the head of their operations working on tracking down Guerrero. Azazel will take over Alex’s team once he’s back on his feet, but in the meantime he’s working on brokering a quiet deal with Raven for access to her vast network of contacts to help. They’re still looking for anything on Trask, but Erik knows in his gut once they catch one of them, the others will fall like dominos.

“This is a big step, you know,” Charles says mildly, serious blue gaze back on Erik’s face again. “We’ve already moved in together once, and we even adopted a dog together. But a penthouse?”

Erik laughs, glad he made the preparations that he did. “I know,” he says, reaching across the sparsely-furnished living room to where a silver tray sits waiting on a side table, “which is why…”

This time Charles laughs as he watches the tray float over to hover beside them, holding a bottle of champagne and two crystal champagne flutes. “Someone thinks he’s getting lucky tonight.”

“Can you blame a man for hoping?” Erik asks slyly, letting go of Charles and grabbing the bottle. The cork gives a satisfying _pop_ when he opens it, and he pours them both a liberal amount, all without spilling a single bubbly drop. “I think my current view is worth celebrating.”

“The city?” Charles asks, accepting a glass when Erik offers him one.

“And you,” Erik says, floating the bottle and tray back over to the side table and tapping the rim of his glass against Charles’ with a soft _ting_.

“Now I’m going to _have_ to put out, aren’t I,” Charles asks, but he’s projecting warm pleasure at Erik as they each take a sip, showing Erik how he’s been admiring the attractive figure Erik cuts this whole time, in his dark suit with the whole city as his backdrop. “Mm. Maybe I can pencil you in. I’m a little busy penthouse-shopping.”

Erik grins, looping his arm through Charles’ so they stand pressed together in front of the wide window, glasses of champagne in their free hands. Charles is at his side and in his mind, weathering the storm with Erik as he always has, ever since they first met. “Come on. Time for the tour.”

 

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Cover art for "A Dangerous Game"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5615608) by [avictoriangirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/avictoriangirl/pseuds/avictoriangirl)




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